







%-^ 


Jf « 


•x^^' '^■^: 









'bo'^ 




'':a v^ 




(.*■' 
.^*' 


■% 




vO'^., 


V-. 






.^■' 










: ,.^'^' 






' ^ « <, s "^ 


N-^ '"'-'-i. 




.0' . ■ 






■S^ ,. \ 1 p ^, ' 





' -^ ^>^ 




\#' ~ 




Z"^. 
^ ^ . 


__- r- 






:/ 






* « 1 -v ' 



^^ %^« '•^. 



^^^' ^^- 



4 






■ lO' 



v-^^ S^ 






■ - -^ ^ 



/ k? 



cl- "")/ ^^ 



/ 






tJ 



o 



' _^ 




IPMHILABI 






POEMS, 



c'-'»^«- 



atiflual au^ lairtBHt 



G 



A 



W.O^UTT 



ER. 



The man that hath no music in himself, 

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, 

Is fit for treason, stratagems and spoils — 

The motions of his spirit are dull as night, 

And his affections dark as Erebus; 

Let no such man he trusted. — Shakspeaee. 




PHILADELPHIA 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT 

1857. 




CO. 






Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by 

G. W. CUTTER, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Eastern 

District of Pennsylvania 



TO 



[t ^mtxitu |e03^h» 



(iii) 



CONTENTS 





PAGE. 


PHEPACE . 


. 1 


The Captive . . . . . • i 


17 


E Pluribus Unum . . • . « 


. .34 


The Song of Iron 


38 


The Song of Steam . . . . . 


. 43 


The Song of Cammerce . • . . 


47 


Song of the Pestilence . . , . 


. , 51 


The Song of Lightning . . • 


56 


The Press 


. 60 


Never! ....... 


68 


Henry Clay . . . . . ... 


. 68 


Song of the Fire Annihilator . . , 


71 


The Death of Osceola .... 


. 75 


The Burning Boat .... 


80 


The Treasure ...... 


. 85 


Buena Vista 


93 



Vi CONTENTS. 

The Fireman ...... 

Invocation ....... 

On the Death of General Worth 

On the Death of General Taylor . . , 

To Washington ...... 

Stanzas . ...... 

Washington's Birthday .... 

To a Portrait of General Taylor . 

God and Liberty ..... 

Voices from the Crowd, " A Remonstrance with the 
Americans." . . . . . 

An Answer to a Remonstrance 
The Land of the West . , . 
Ode to the Deity . . . • 
Despair . . . . . • . 

The Miser . 

Listen . . . * . • • • 
To my Soul . . . ... • 

Ode to the Grand Prairie . • • 

Elegy ........ 

Carry me Back ..... 

Niagara ...... 

The Star of the Legion of Honor 
The Queen City . . . 
Napoleon's Request . . . . 



CONTENTS. 


vii 


To the Memory of Dr. Alex. Ross 


PAGE. 

. 194 


To the Memory of * * * . , 


. 198 


The Creation of Woman .... 


. 201 


To Althea 


. 211 


To my little Step-daughter .... 


. 215 


Wilt Thou Roam with Me ... . 


. 219 


Love's Remonstrance . . . . ,. 


. 222 


Tn 


. 225 
. 227 


±0 ■■■ ■ .••... 
" In Coelo Quies 


Written for an Album 


. 229 




. 231 


Stanzas ........ 


. 233 


An Impromptu 


. 235 


I do not Know Thee . . . , , 


. 237 


To a Pocket Handkerchief ... 


. 240 


To 


. 243 


To Isa 


. 245 


Lines Written on a Blank Leaf of Shakspeare 


. 247 


Fannie Lemoine ...... 


. 249 


The Dew Drop 


. 251 




. 254 


Written in an Album 


. 256 


Tn li+flr Tnlin Tj 


. 258 
. 261 


Song 


Farewell . . . • . . , 


. 263 



VIU CONTENTS. 

PAOE. 

Morning at the Falls . . . . . . 266 

I Remember Thee Yet 269 

A Picture 271 

To Imogine 274 

Farewell to the Lyre 277 



PREFACE. 



Gentle Reader: It is with no ordinary solicitude, that 
I put these songs and poems in the hands of the public, thus 
placing them, with all their rudeness and imperfections, 
for ever beyond my recall; and that too in this practical 
age, when the world is absorbed in its great schemes of 
utility, politics, and finance — in fashion, discovery and war : 
yet believing that Poetry has a mission to fulfill upon the 
earth, even amidst the strife and bustle of modern civilization, 
though conscious of the poverty of my own efi'orts in the 
cause of the Muses, I cannot let the occasion pass without a 
word or two in favor of the " Divine Art." 

"Poetry," says Mr. Maunder, in his Scientific and Lite- 
rary Treasury, " in its ordinary acceptation, is the art of 
expressing sentiments in measured language, according to 
certain rules of harmony and taste. 

" It is divided into blank verse and rhyme, and denominated 
according to its subject : as Pastoral, for rural objects ; 
Elegiac, for plaintive pieces ; Lyrical, or ballad ; Didactic, or 
instructive ; Satirical, or humorous ; and Dramatic, or con- 
versational. 

" But, agreeably with the extensive signification of its 
Greek original (I create), Poetry assuredly includes every 



2 PREFACE. 

effusion, every creation of the mind, whether expressed by 
the pen, the pencil, or the reed. 

"In all cases, poetry has the same general character, that 
of an appeal to the passions of its hearer, and to win him 
over to the conceptions of the poet, whether those concep- 
tions be just or otherwise. 

" The rules of poetry and versifying are taught by art, and 
may be acquired by study ; but this force and elevation of 
thought, which Horace calls something divine, and which alone 
makes poetry of any value, must be from nature." 

Here then, we are taught that versifying, painting, and 
music, are all three properly comprehended under the common 
and general term Poetry, and that though the rules by which 
poetry is governed are taught by art, and may be acquired 
by study, yet that something, which alone makes poetry of 
any value, can only be acquired from nature. 

Whatever may be said to the contrary of painting, I may 
here assert, without any fear of successful contradiction, that 
music and poetry, at least, are one and the same, and can no 
more be separated, and still exist to our senses, than shadow 
from its substance, or the soul from the body. By a law as 
immutable, as inflexible, as that which regulates the motions 
of the spheres, they are for ever coerced into mutual attend- 
ance the one upon the other. Twin-born of the same ele- 
ments, they cannot be divided, but invariably will exist or 
perish together. To search for the origin of poetry is to 
enquire into the sublime and stupendous mystery of the 
creation of man and of nature itself; for the one seems for 
ever coincident with the other. 

The first blessing of which our infant ear is conscious, when 
above our cradled repose a mother's voice is heard to soothe 
our peaceful slumber, — the last we wish for in that solemn 
farewell hour when our drooping senses take no note save 
of the gentle tones of broken-hearted affection, or the sub- 



PREFACE. 3 

duing prayers of never-ending love — when, impressed at last 
with tlie more than nothingness of this Avorld, our disen- 
thralled impatient spirits are ready to exclaim, 

" Cease, fond uature, cease thy strife, 
And let me languish into life." 

The world is full of poetry — aye, and the heavens too. 
The universe is but one mighty epic, whose cadence is the 
thunder chanting eternally the praise of God, beginning 
when the morning stars first sang together, and the " sweet 
influence of the Pleiades " crowned the consummation of 
his labor. 

Man is essentially an imitative being, and in his first efforts 
to communicate, by vocal signs, the passions and feelings he 
found struggling for utterance from the depths of his heart, 
he probably followed the examples that existed around him 
in every object of the visible and invisible universe. 

With the roar of the mighty, and to him illimitable ocean, 
he naturally associated the idea of vastness and power; — the 
fiery spectacle of the volcano, the rending shock of the earth- 
quake, with that of terror and destruction ; — while the ripple 
of -the gently flowing river, the murmur of the purling stream, 
were so many voices of comfort, refreshment, and repose. 
The roar of the lion to him was expressive of courage, 
while the bleating of flocks and the lowing of herds, were 
significant of home and of country. The notes of the song 
birds were the eloquent explicatives of pleasure and of hope, 
while the cooing of the lonely dove was the touching elegy of 
despondency and sorrow. The rush of the wailing, shrieking 
tempest, furnished him with language for the horrid diapason 
of battle ; while through the solemn gloom of the forest, the 
boom of the descending cataract and the roll of the lofty 
thunder subdued him to reverence as the accents of a God. 
• " Moses informs us that Jubal, who lived before the flood, 



4: PKEFACE. 

was the inventor of the Kinnor and the Hugah, meaning the 
harp and the organ. 

" The Jews were fond of music in their religious ceremonies, 
their feasts, and their public rejoicings, their marriages. and 
their mournings. The music of the temple was performed by 
the families of Asaph, Herman, and Jeduthan, the Levites, 
whose whole business it was to learn and practice this agree- 
able art ; and abundant provision was made for them, that they 
might not be prevented from pursuing their musical studies 
by the cares of life. Kings and great men among the Jews 
studied music, and David made great proficiency in it. In 
his time, indeed, music had reached its highest perfection 
among the Hebrew nation, and part of their religious ser- 
vice consisted in chanting solemn hymns and psalms, with 
instrumental accompaniments. 

"The invention of the lyre is ascribed to Hermes Trisma- 
gestes, the Mercury of the Egyptians, which is a proof of its 
antiquity. But a still greater proof of the existence of 
musical instruments among them at a very early period, is 
drawn from the figure of an instrument said to be represented 
on an obelisk erected by Sesostris, at Heliopolis. 

" The Greeks are known to have been fond of music. It had 
a considerable share in their education ; and so great was its 
influence over their bodies, as well as their minds, that it was 
thought to be a remed}^ for various disorders. 

" The traditions indicate that they received this art, or at 
least a great improvement in the execution of it, from Lydia, 
where Amphyon is said to have learned music, and from 
Arcadia, where the shepherds practiced on the pipe, the flute, 
and the cytheran. From the province of Asia Minor, the dif- 
ferent modes of Greek music — the Phrygian, the Doric, the 
Lydian, and the Ionian — were derived. Simple in its origin^ 
afterwards more rich and varied, it successively animated the 
verses of Hesiod, Homer, Archilocas, Terpander, Simonides, 



PREFACE. 5 

and Pindar. Music was then inseparable from poetry. It 
borrowed all its charms, or rather, we will say, poetry was 
embellished by those of music. The ancient poets, who were 
at once musicians, philosophers, and legislators, obliged to 
distribute in their verses the species of time of which those 
verses were capable, never lost sight of this principle — words, 
melody, rythm, the three powerful agents employed by music 
in imitation, all equally concurred in, producing unity of 
expression. They were early acquainted with the diatonic, 
chromatic, and inharmonic genera ; and, to each of these, 
genius assigned the species of poetry the best adapted to 
them ; they employed our three principal modes, and applied 
them in preference to the three general subjects they were 
obliged to treat. 

" Was a warlike nation to be animated to combat, or enter- 
tained with the recital of its exploits, the doric harmony lent 
its force and majesty. If necessary to lay before them greater 
examples of calamity and suiFering, in order to instruct them 
in the science of misfortune, elegies and plaintive songs 
borrowed the piercing and pathetic tones of the Lydian har- 
mony. To inspire with awe and gratitude towards the Gods, 
the Phrygian notes were appropriated to the sacred hymns. 
The lyre then produced but a small number of sounds, and 
singing afforded but very little variety. The simplicity of the 
means employed by music secured the triumphs of poetry, 
more philosophic and instructive than history, inasmuch as it 
selects sublimer models, delineates greater characters, holding 
out illustrious lessons of courage, prudence, and honor." 

" As dignity," says Anaeharsis, — from whom we quote, — 
" As dignity is inseparable from elevation of sentiments and 
ideas, the poet who bears the impression of it in his soul, 
does not give way to servile imitation. His conceptions are 
lofty, and his language that of one whose office it is to 
speak with the Gods, and to instruct men. Their hymns in- 



6 PKEFACE. 

spired piety ; their poems, the thirst of glory ; their elegies, 
patience and firmness under misfortunes ; examples, as well 
as precepts, were easily imprinted on the memory, by simple 
airs, of noble and expressive character ; and youth, early 
accustomed to repeat them, imbibed, with their amusements, 
the love of every duty, and the idea of real excellence." 

" The origin of poetical numbers," says Mr. Mills, " is 
found in a desire to reduce specific ideas to a definite form ; 
hence, Minos, and other ancient sages, composed their laws 
in verse. 

" The effusions of the early bards of Grreece, were, doubt- 
less, of the same nature. In the heroic ages, the deeds of 
real personages formed the burthen of the poet's song, and 
for this reason their names became sacred, and their meme- 
ries immortalized. 

Of these bards, such as Linas, Orpheus, and Musaeus, 
little else is known than their names ; and to determine the 
time at which they flourished, was a matter of as great diffi- 
culty two thousand years ago, as it is at present ; we there- 
fore pass over these earlier poets, and proceed at once to 
Homer, emphatically the father of Grecian poetry. His 
versatility, and his creative power, are certainly without a 
parallel amongst the ancients ; and in modern times, he has 
scarcely had an equal. The worthies of antiquity were uni- 
formly formed after the models of his poems ; from him, law- 
givers, and founders of monarchies and commonwealths, took 
the models of their politics. Hence, too, philosophers the 
first principles of morality which they taught their disciples. 
Here, also, physicians learned the nature of diseases, and their 
causes; the astronomers of ancient times acquired their know- 
ledge of the heavens, and geometricians of the earth ; kings 
and princes the art of government; and captains to form a 
battle, to encamp an army, to besiege towns, to figlit, and to 
gain victories. Strabo assures us that Homer has described 



PREFACE. 7 

the places, and tlie countrieSj of whicli he gives us an account, 
with that accuracy that no man can imagine, who has not 
seen them, and whicli no man but must admire, and be 
astonished at. His poems may justly be compared with that 
shield of divine workmanship so inimitably represented in 
the eighteenth book of the Illiad, where we have exact 
images of all the actions of war, and all the employments of 
peace, and are at the same time entertained with a delightful 
view of the universe. 

" Ootemporaneous with Homer lived Hesiod, who, in a con- 
test at the court of Chalcis, won the prize of a golden tripod 
from his mighty rival, and immediately dedicated it to the 
Muses, after having inscribed upon it the following lines : 

" This Hesiod vows to the Heliconian nine, 
In Chalcis won from Homer the divine." 

The didactic lessons which his poems contain, were re- 
garded by the ancients as of such great importance, that they 
were used for ages throughout Greece, for purposes of reci- 
tation in the ordinary course of moral instruction in their 
seats of learning. • 

These mighty lights, though they first feebly dawned upon 
the dim horizon of remote and ancient civilization, have 
steadily arose into the zenith of its noon-day sky, and, like 
the lordly sun and moon, still hold their place amidst the 
countless spheres of lesser magnitude, that only glitter in 
their borrowed lights. 

With them, indeed, the true mission of poetry commences ; 
and faithfully have the duties of its high vocation been per- 
formed, even down to our times, enlightening and inspiring 
the human soul; purifying and elevating the thoughts and 
feelings of man ; illustrating his history, and adorning his 
achievements. 

To leave this attractive land of poets, philosophers, and 



8 PKEFACE. 

heroes, we come next to the immortal Latin poet, Virgil. 
"Homer," says Sir William Temple, "was, without doubt, 
the most universal genius, and Virgil the most accomplished. 
To the first must be allowed the most fertile imagination,^ the 
richest vein, the most general knowledge, and the most lively 
expression. To the last, the noblest ideas, the justest insti- 
tutions, the wisest conduct, and the choicest elocution. To 
speak in the painter's terms, we find in the words of Homer 
the most spirit, force, and life ; in those of Virgil, the best 
designs, the truest proportions, and the greatest grace ; the 
coloring in both seems equal, and, indeed, in both is admira- 
ble. Homer had more fire and rapture, Virgil more light 
and sweetness ; or, at least, the poetical fire was more raging 
in the one, but clearer in the other, which makes the first 
more amusing, and the latter more agreeable. The ore was 
richer in the one, but in the other more refined, and better 
atloyed to make up excellent work. Upon the whole, it 
must be confessed that Homer was, of the two, and perhaps 
of all others, the vastest, the sublimest, and the most won- 
derful genius, and that he has been generally so esteemed 
there can be no greater testimony given than has been by 
some observed, that not only the greatest masters have 
found the best and trustiest principles of all their sciences 
and arts in him, but the noblest nations have derived the 
original of their several races, though it be hardly yet 
agreed whether his story be true or a fiction. In short, 
these two immortal poets must be allowed to have so much 
exceeded all comparison, as to have extinguished emulation, 
and in a manner confined true poetry, not only to their own 
languages, but to their very poems." 

This triumphant conclusion might stand as true, but for 
the new and mighty forces brought into action by Dante and 
Milton. Grant that these intellectual giants had exhausted 
the munificent resources of the visible universe, and all the 



PREFACE. 9 

splendors of fabulous mythology, yet they had not seen the 
Star that arose in the East ; they had not heard the Song 
that stole at night upon the ears of the shepherds of Bethle- 
hem, though there is, doubtless, some divinity in the fire that 
burns upon the altars they have kindled, yet it is not the 
broad and steady blaze of revelation; they wrote by the 
light of the sun and the moon ; but these sacred bards were 
favored by the effulgence of that which reveals the glory of 
that world which shall exist when the heavens of this shall 
be rolled together as a scroll. 

I have not space to speak of the wonders and beauties of 
the many other poets of a lesser note, either of ancient or 
modern times. I should like to pay my respects to Ariosto, 
Torquato Tasso, to Camoens, to Goethe, Schiller, Shakspeare, 
Byron, and Burns. I should like to speak of the Trouba- 
dours, to dwell upon the poetry of various nations ; but the 
subject is too vast for my present purpose, and all are fa- 
miliar with the astonishing effects which these authors have 
produced upon the world. 

National songs are the chiefest wealth of any country; 
the power and influence of Rule Britannia, the Marseillaise 
Hymn, the Sword Leoid, Hail Columbia, and the Star Span- 
gled Banner, are felt and acknowledged all over the world. 
Well might the British statesman exclaim, "Let me but 
make the ballads of a nation, I care not who makes its laws." 
They inspire the citizen with patriotism and devotion, they 
fill the soldier's breast with a thirst for glory, they breathe 
the soul of liberty, and perpetuate the deeds of justice and 
of valor. They are the admiration of the free, and the 
terror of tyrants. Never was this better exemplified than in 
a paragraph which I cut from the Commercial, of this city, a 
few days ago. It reads as follows : 

" The French soldiers who returned from the Crimea to 
Paris with such pomp, a few days since, were to have par- 



10 PKEFACE. 

taken of a banquet given by the National Guard, but it did 
not come off, according to the correspondent of the New 
York Times, for the following reason : ' During the repulses 
•which were experienced by a portion of the French troops, 
at the final assault on Sebastopol, some of the regiments 
demanded the llarseillaise, and Gen. Pelissier was forced to 
give his consent to the request. This fact is stated by the 
returned soldiers themselves ; and they declare that if the 
bands had not been allowed to play that air, the day would 
have been rendered doubtful. And it was the fear that these 
same men, when inflated by the importance which has been 
given them, and excited by wine, might again break out with 
the terrible air, even in the face of the man who fears it most. 
It was simply from fear of some such demonstration as this 
that the order was revoked.' " 

Here was an emperor, the descendant of a hero, — himself 
aggrandized by the prestige of recent victories, though seat- 
ed on his throne, within the precincts of his own fortified 
capital, and surrounded by a numerous army, yet he quailed 
with fear at the prospect of hearing a mere song resounding 
through the streets, and shrank aghast, as if a thousand 
cannon were at his gates. Why did he fear ? Ah ! that song 
can never be sung without arousing the irresistible spirit of 
freedom and liberty, which is its soul and its mission. Such 
is the might and majesty of song. 

" Of all the heaven-bestowed privileges of the poet," says 
Mrs. Jamieson, in her Loves of the Poets, " the highest, the 
dearest, the most enviable, is the power of immortalizing the 
object of his love, of dividing with her his amaranthine 
wreath of glory, and repaying the inspiration caught from 
her eyes, with a crown of everlasting fame. It is not enough 
that in his imagination he has deified her, that he has conse- 
crated his faculties to her honor, that he has burned his 
heart in incense upon the altar of her perfections. The 



PREFACE. 11 

divinity thus decked out in the richest, loveliest hues, he 
places on high, and calls upon all ages and all nations to bow 
down before her; and all ages and all nations obey — wor- 
shiping the beauty thus enshrined in imperishable verse, 
when others, perhaps as fair, and not less worthy, have gone 
down to " dust and endless darkness/' How many women, 
who would otherwise have stolen through the shades of do- 
piestic life, their charms, their virtues, their affections, buried 
with them, have become objects of eternal interest and admi- 
ration, because their memories are linked with the brightest 
monuments of human genius. While many a high-born 
dame, who once moved goddess-like upon the earth, and 
bestowed kingdoms with her hand, lives a mere name in 
some musty chronicle ; though her love was sought by prin- 
ces, though with her dower she might have enriched an 
emperor, what availed it ? 

" She had no poet and she died." 

And how has woman repaid this gift of immortality. Oh, 
believe it, when the garland was such as woman is proud to 
wear, she amply and deeply rewarded him who placed it 
upon her brow. 

If, in return for being made illustrious, she made her lover 
happy, was it not a rich equivalent ? 

And if not ; if the lover was unsuccessful, still the poet 
had his reward. Whence came the generous feelings, the 
high imaginations, the glorious fancies, the heavenward aspi- 
rations, which raised him above the herd of vulgar men, but 
from the ennobling influences of her he loved? 

" Through her, the world opened upon him with a diviner 
beauty, and all nature became, in his sight, but a transcript 
of the charms of his mistress. He saw her eyes in the stars 
of heaven, her lips in the half-blown rose ; the perfume of 
the opening flowers was but her breath, that wafted sweet- 



12 PREFACE. 

ness round about the world ; the lily was a sweet thief that 
had stolen its puritj from her breast ; the violet was dipped 
in the azure of her veins ; the aurorean dews " dropped from 
the opening eyelids of the morn," were not so pure as her 
tears ; the last rose-tint of the dying day was not so bright 
or so delicate as her cheek ; hers was the freshness of the 
dew and the bloom of spring ; she consumed him to languor 
as the summer sun ; she was kind as the bounteous autumn ; 
or she froze him with her wintry disdain. There was nothing 
in the wonders, the splendors, or the treasures of the crea- 
ted universe, in heaven or in earth, in the seasons or their 
changes, that did not borrow from her some charm, some 
glory beyond its own. Was it not just that the beauty she 
dispensed should be consecrated to her adornment, and that 
the inspiration she bestowed should be repaid her in fame. 

" For what of thee thy poet doth invent, 
He robs thee of, and pays it thee again ; 
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word 
From thy behavior — beauty doth he give, 
But found it in thy cheek ; he can afford 

No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live, 
Then thank him not for that which he doth say, 
Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay." 

The theory, then, which I wish to illustrate as far as my 
limited powers permit, is this : That where a woman has been 
exalted above the rest of her sex, by the talents of a lover, 
and consigned to enduring fame and perpetuity of praise, 
the passion was real, and was merited. That no deep or 
lasting interest was ever founded in fancy or in fiction ; that 
truth, in short, is the basis of all excellence in amatory 
poetry, as in every thing else ; for, where truth is there is 
good of some sort, and where there is truth and good, there 
must be beauty, there must be durability of fame. 

Truth is the golden chain that links the terrestrial with 



PEEFACE. 13 

the celestial, which sets the seal of heaven on the things of 
this earth, and stamps them with immortality. Poets have 
risen up, and been the mere fashion of a day, and have set 
up idols, which have been the idols of a day. If the worship 
be out of date and the idols cast down, it is because these 
adorers wanted sincerity of purpose and feeling ; their rap- 
tures were feigned, their incense was bought or adulterate. 

In the brain, or in the fancy, one beauty may eclipse 
another. One coquette may driv-e out another, and tricked 
off in airy verse, they float away unregarded, like morning 
vapors, which the beam of genius has tinged with a transient 
brightness. But let the heart once be touched, and it is not 
only wakened, but inspired. The lover kindled into the poet, 
presents to her he loves, his cup of ambrosial praise. She 
tastes, and the woman is transmuted into a divinity. 

When the Grecian sculptor carved out his deities in mar- 
ble, and left us wondrous and godlike shapes, impersonations 
of ideal grace unapproachable by modern skill, was it 
through mere mechanical superiority? No! It was the 
spirit of faith within, which shadowed to his imagination 
what he would represent. In the same manner, no woman 
has ever been truly, lastingly deified in poetry, but in the 
spirit of truth and love. 

"In an intellectual nature formed for progress and for 
higher modes of being," says Dr. Channing, " there must be 
creative energies, power of original and growing thought, — 
and poetry is the form in which these energies are chiefly 
manifested. It is the glorious prerogative of this art that it 
makes all things new for the gratification of a divine instinct. 
It indeed finds its elements in what it actually sees and expe- 
riences in the world of matter and mind, but it combines and 
blends them into new forms, and according to new affinities, 
breaks down, if we may so say, the distinctions and bonds of 
nature, imparts to material objects life, sentiment, and emo- 



14 PREFACE. 

tion, and invests the mind with the powers and splendors of 
the outward creation ; describes the surrounding universe in 
colors which the passions throw over it, and depicts the mind 
in those moments of repose or agitation, of tenderness or 
sublime emotion, which manifests its thirst for a more power- 
ful and joyful existence." 

To a man of literal and prosaic character, the mind may 
seem lawless in these wakings ; but it observes higher laws 
than it transgresses — the laws of the immortal intellect. It 
is trying and developing its best faculties, and in the objects 
which it describes, or in the emotions which it awakens, an- 
ticipates those states of progressive power, splendor, beauty, 
and happiness, for which it was created. 

We accordingly believe that poetry, far from injuring 
society, is one of the great instruments of its refinement and 
exaltation ; it lifts the mind above ordinary life, gives it a 
respite from depressing cares, and awakens the consciousness 
of its affinity with what is pure and noble. In its legitimate 
and highest efforts it has the same tendency and aim with 
Christianity, that is to spiritualize our nature. True-, poetry 
has been made the instrument of vice, the pander of bad pas- 
sions ; but when genius thus stoops, it dims its fires and parts 
with much of its powers ; and even when poetry is enslaved 
to licentiousness or misanthropy, she can not wholly forget 
her true vocation. Strains of pure feeling, touches of tender- 
ness, images of innocent happiness, sympathies with suffering 
virtue, bursts of scorn or indignation at the hollowness of the 
world — passages true to our moral nature, often escape in 
an immoral work, and show us how hard it is for a gifted spirit 
to divorce itself wholly from what is good. 

Poetry has a natural alliance with our best affections ; it 
delights m the beauty and sublimity of the outward creation, 
and of the soul. It indeed portrays with terrible energy the 
excesses of the passions, but they are passions which show a 



PREFACE. 15 

mighty nature, which are full of power, which command awe, 
and excite a deep though shuddering sympathy. Its great 
tendency and purpose is to carry the mind above and beyond 
the beaten, dusty, weary walks of ordinary life — to lift it into 
a purer element, and to breathe into it more profound and 
generous emotions. It reveals to us the loveliness of nature, 
brings back the freshness of youthful feeling, revives the 
relish of simple pleasures, keeps unquenched the enthusiasm 
which warmed the spring-time of our being, refines youthful 
love, strengthens our interest in human nature, by vivid de- 
lineations of its tenderest and loftiest feelings ; spreads our 
sympathies over all classes of society, knits us by new ties 
with universal being, and through the brightness of its pro- 
phetic vision, helps faith to lay hold on the future life. 

We are aware that it is objected against poetry, that it 
gives wrong views and excites false expectations of life, peo- 
ples the mind with shadows and illusions, and builds up the 
imagination on the ruins of wisdom. That there is a wisdom 
against which poetry wars — the wisdom of the senses — which 
makes physical comfort and gratification the supreme good, 
and wealth the chief interest of life, we do not deny; nor do 
we deem it the least service which poetry renders to mankind, 
that it redeems them from the thraldom of this earth-born 
prudence. But passing over this topic, we should observe 
that the complaint against poetry as abounding in illusion and 
deception, is in the main groundless. In many poems there 
is more of truth than in many histories and philosophical 
theories. The fictions of genius are often the vehicles of 
the sublimest virtues, and it flashes often upon new regions of 
thought, and throws new light on the mysteries of our being. 

In poetry the letter is falsehood, but the spirit is often 
profoundest wisdom. And if truth thus dwell 'in the bolder 
fictions of the poet, much more may it be expected in his de- 
lineations of life ; for the present life, which is the first stage 



16 PREFACE. 

of the immortal mind, abounds in materials of poetry, and it 
is the high office of the bard to detect this divine element 
among the grosser labors and pleasures of our earthly being. 

The present life is not wholly prosaic, precise, tame, and 
finite. To the gifted eye it abounds in the poetic ; the affec- 
tions which spread beyond ourselves, and stretch far into 
futurity ; the working of the mighty passions which seem to 
arm the soul with an almost superhuman energy ; the inno- 
cent and inexpressible joy of infancy ; the bloom and buoy- 
ancy and dazzling hopes of youth ; the throbbings of the 
heart when it first wakes to love, and dreams of happiness too 
vast for earth. 

Woman, with her beauty, and grace, and gentleness, and 
fullness of feeling, and depth of affection, and her blushes of 
purity, and the tones and looks which only a mother's heart 
can inspire ; these are all poetical. It is not true, that the 
poet paints a life which does not exist ; he only extracts and 
concentrates, as it were, life's ethereal essence, arrests and 
condenses its volatile fragrance, brings together its scattered 
beauties, and prolongs its more refined but evanescent joys; 
and in this he does well, for it is good to feel that life is not 
wholly usurped by cares for substance and physical gratifica- 
tions, but admits in measures, which may be indefinitely 
enlarged, sentiments and delights worthy of a higher being. 

Poetry then may justly be styled a universal language 
expressive of feeling, and proves there is at least one chord 
that binds the human family together, one common ground 
where all may meet in sympathetic union. Is it too much 
to infer that this is the expressive language in which we all 
shall ultimately join, in common adoration of our great and 
beneficent Creator, here, and in that world where we shall 
exist for ever. 



THE CAPTIYE. 



Sublime as the sacred pillar of light 

That o'er the dark desert arose, 
To guide the chosen of God, while his ire 

Was a cloud o'er the path of their foes : 
Thus tower'd a volume of glorious light 

Where the council-fire was piled, 
And backward roU'd the pall of night 

From the depths of the forest wild. 

A thousand columns in majesty rose — 

The stars in silence crown them, 
While sable night at distance throws 

A wall of shadow around them. 
The rustling leaves were waving free 

In the bland and balmy air, 
Or flashing their emerald heraldry 

In that watch-fire's ruddy glare. 



18 THE CAPTIVE. 

While gorgeous flowers of every hue 

Like orient censers bloom, 
And gemm'd with drops of sparkling dew, 
Were breathing rich perfume ; 
• While o'er that sward the gods might tread 
Fearless of mortal stain, 
And bear the light their sandals shed 
Undimm'd to heaven again. 

For never since creation's birth 

Did human foot impress 
Its form upon the virgin earth 

Of that pure wilderness. 
There softly the voice of the torrent's rush 

From distance greets the ear. 
And mingles with the cheering gush 

Of fountains gurgling near. 

' And sweeter than the mystic notes 

Of Memnon's harp divine. 
Is the whisper'd tone that ever floats 

O'er the boughs of the lofty pine. 
Such is the hall of freedom proud, 

The temple heaven supplies, 
Whose banner is the streaming cloud, 

Whose dome is the starry skies. 



THE CAPTIVE. 19 

There swells no marble by his side, 

O'er heaps of crimson spoil ; 
No monuments of human pride, 

Or marks of human toil ; 
No fretted arch or tinsel'd wall, 

With tatter'd banners spread — 
Those epitaphs that do recall 

Nothing — but of the dead. 

They are needed not — those crumbling piles 

With centuries grown dim ; 
Let tyrants tread their pillar'd aisles, 

They were not made for him! 
The pale-face in his pride may prize 

These mockeries of art : 
The hill, the stream, the starry skies, 

Are dearer to his heart. 

The hand the costliest diamond fires — 

The haughtiest sceptre waves ; 
The proudest domes, the loftiest spires. 

Were ever rear'd by slaves : 
The barren rock, the wild, wild glen. 

The isles of the dark blue sea, 
And the trackless desert, have ever been 

The homes of the fearless free. 



20 THE CAPTIVE. 

Like giant shades that swell on high 

At night's mysterious noon ; 
The thunder-clouds of all the sky 

Piled up around the moon ; 
Wild, dark, and mute, his warriors sit 

In that forest-cinctured wold, 
Like glacier waves the storm has met 

And frozen as they roll'd. 

And in their midst, all voiceless there, 

Is one in childhood's bloom ; 
There droops from out his raven hair 

Full many a radiant plume ; 
And from his shoulder there descends 

A quiver and painted bow, 
Veil'd by his robe, whose color blends 

Like roses wreath'd with snow. 

A crimson scarf is round his waist, 

O'er his vesture's azure fold, 
And the dagger there so careless placed 

Is rich with gems and gold ; 
His sandals are so richly wrought, 

You 'd deem the sylvan fair 
The rainbow in its pride had caught, 

And wove its glory there. 



THE CAPTIVE. 21 

His slender form, his maiden brow, 

His soft, dark, flashing eyes, 
All fraught with hope and passion now, 

And thoughts of high emprize. 
I've stood where purest dreams were given— 

The pencil's breath of life — 
Till the canvas grew a spell from heaven 

O'er my spirit's kindling strife : 

I 've worship'd the idols of other days 

Till my heart hath gush'd with joy ; 
But their marble no image of beauty conveys 

Like that wild Indian boy: 
He seem'd the Genius of Freedom there, 

That tyrant ne'er hath bowed; 
A spirit of beauty whose home is the air, 

Whose path is the summer cloud. 

Ah! deems he of a mother's smile? 

Of a father's fond caress? 
Of a cottage that was rear'd erewhile 

On the verge of the wilderness? 
Or how that mother's long dark hair 

Was torn from her snowy brow, 
And oft is waved on the forest air, 

A trophy of vengeance now? 



22 THE CAPTIVE. 

For the red man in his frenzied ire, 

And injury, and hate, 
At midnight came, with steel and fire, 

His deep revenge to sate; 
And where secure at dayhght's close 

That border village stood, 
Nought met the eye when morn arose 

But ashes quench'd in blood ! 

They saw its bright red ruins glare 

Where their blazing arrows fell; 
And they shook the black and starless air 

With a wild and fearful yell ! 
His father perish' d, knife in hand, 

Mid the dread and hellish scene; 
And of that hamlet not a brand 

Now breaks the level green. 

And he alone survived the storm 

Of that fiendish border fray, 
Tho' a murderer seized his tender form, 

And bared his knife to slay! 
But even that murderer's heart could feel 

The beauty he paused to trace, 
As that cherub grasp'd the glittering steel, 

And smiled in his demon face. 



THE CAPTIVE. 23 

And ere he could his thoughts array 

To dispel the unwelcome charm, 
That reeking knife was wrench'd away 

With the force of a giant arm ! 
Like a tiger he sprang to the red embrace, 

In the strength of a warrior pride ; 
But a glance hath fix'd him to the place — 

His chief is by his side ! 

That chieftain's lip was wreath'd in scorn, 

And from his dark eye broke 
A curse, that accent ne'er hath borne — 

That language ne'er hath spoke ! 
"Away!" At length his lips found words 

His gathering rage to speak ; 
While the fire that deathly passion hoards 

Flash'd o'er his swarthy cheek. 

"Away! — nor linger on my path, 

Thou minister of hell ! 
Ere leaps the adder of my wrath ! 

Off! wretch! thou knowest me well ! 
Go from my sight ! haste ! get thee hence ! 

Nay, speak not, but depart. 
Ere the steel thou aim'st at innocence 

Shall reach thy guilty heart ! 



2i THE CAPTIVE. 

"A warrior thou ! and such the foes 

Thou seekest in the strife? 
The tide that in thy bosom flows 

Must shield thy guilty life ! 
By heaven ! that head should instant roll 

On the earth thy murder stains, 
But that I know a Shawnee's soul 

Is red within thy veins. 

" The glorious name our fathers won — 

The fame of other years — 
Think you 'twas bought with woman's groan, 

Or helpless infant's tears ! 
Off! slave ! The braves Tecumseh leads 

Are led to war with men; 
But woman and her children bleed 

To-night where they have been! 

"Who bid thee seek this friendly cot? 

Ah ! well thy knife hath sped ! 
How, traitor ! hast thou thus forgot 

The hand that gave thee bread ? 
Thou know'st thy victim was our friend — 

The firm, the tried, the true : 
Thy chief had perish'd to defend 

These whom thy treachery slew ! 



THE CAPTIVE. 25 

"Hast thou SO soon forgot the hour; 

Hast thou forgot the day ; 
When in the battle's leaden shower 

Our braves were swept away ? 
Our women to the hills had fled ; 

Our homes were all on flame ; 
And blood, and death, and terror spread, 

Where'er a pale-face came ? 

"Hast thou forgot, how, on that night, 

When all was hush'd in sleep. 
Save where around some funeral light 

The soldier watch'd to weep, 
I sought Kiskara mid the slain ? 

I thought that brave had died : 
For he, when death-shot pour'd like rain, 

Fell bleeding by my side. 

" I went to where a rocky bank 

O'er the dim deep waters rose ; 
Whose trampled shores in torrents drank 

The blood of invading foes ! 
I felt a strange and awful dread, 

As I strode o'er that fatal hill — 
Like a spirit amidst the ranks of dead, 

They were all so cold and still ! 



26 THE CAPTIVE. 

" The moon was piled like a broken wreath 

Of snow on an Alp of cloud j 
And mournfully over the starless heath 

The wolf howl'd long and loud. 
I felt the dew damps on my feet, 

And paused and look'^i around; 
And listened to hear my pulses beat, 

The silence was so profound. 

'^And then I heard a sigh, a groan — 

Ah, once that voice was strong — 
Again that faint expiring moan ! 

I hastened to the throng ; 
Tor I knew among that dread array 

Kiskara fell the first ; 
But he, it seems, had crawl'd away, 

To quench his dying thirst. 

'^ I found him on the cold white sands- 
He had not reach'd the wave ; 

I bent me down and with my hands 
I scooped for him a grave ! 

Then heap'd it rudely o'er with stone, 
And long ere morning's smile 

Upon those peaceful waters shone, 
I finish'd there my pile. 



THE CAPTIVE. 27 

" Where oft will rest the fisher's prow, 

From those waters cold and dim ; 
And the hunter pause, as I do now, 

To breathe a prayer for him : 
And kindly offerings will be brought 

By many a pilgrim band, 
To tell him he is ne'er forgot 

In his far off spirit-land. 

"And when my mournful task was done, 

With weary limbs and aching heart 
I turn'd me, ere the morning's sun 

Should rise and warn me to depart ; 
But on my path there lurk'd the foe. 

For they had traced me to that shore : 
I saw a flash — I felt a blow — 

And then I knew no more ! 

" When I awoke from out that sleep, 

I lay upon the damp cold ground; 
I felt a shudder o'er me creep. 

To know that I was weak, and bound 
A captive there. I knew not why 

The blood was frozen in my veins ; 
Thou know'st I do not fear to die. 

And yet I trembled in my chains. 



28 THE CAPTIVE. 

" I'd rather bare me to the gash 

Of blazing shaft or ghttering steel, 
Where muskets ring and sabres flash, 

And round the mingling squadrons reel, 
And thickly strew the earth with dead, 

As branches from the forest riven. 
When tempests shake the hills with dread 

And lightning fires the scowling heaven, 

" Than live that moment o'er again ! 

A waking corse, my blood had soil'd 
And stain'd the earth where I had lain ; 

And oh ! those chains like serpents coil'd 
Around my heart ! I feel them yet ! 

And oft in sleep my vision swims 
Of couches with my hfe-blood wet. 

And fetters on my quivering limbs, 

" Till I have sprung from my unrest, 

And joy'd to see the morning beam ! 
'Tis childish, but I have been blest 

To wake and find I did but dream ! 
But then 'twas true ! the gray cold light 

Of dawn was spread on high. 
And one by one the stars of night 

Went out in th' illumined sky. 



THE CAPTIVE. ^ 29 

"And many a pale and vermeil freak, 

Like rose leaves in the air, 
Or hues upon young beauty's cheek, 

That will not linger there ; 
And then an amber ocean roll'd 

O'er the dim and lofty brows 
Of the distant hills, and tipp'd with gold 

Their unawaken'd boughs. 

"I heard the distant waters roar 

As they swept toward the sea; 
I saw the dark rock eagle soar — 

He never seemed so free 
As when I could not even rise 

From off the chilly ground. 
From weakness and the gory ties 

With which my limbs were bound. 

'^And then I thought I heard a step ; 
And then again 'twas gone : 
Then nearer to my side it crept. 
Light as the trembling fawn: 
I turn'd and saw what then I deem'd 

An angel by me there. 
So bright, so beautiful, she seem'd 
A spirit from the world of air. 



30 THE CAPTIVE. 

"Or one of Fancy's iris daughters, 

An image by the sunbeam wrought, 
Or from Walculla's sacred waters, 

Embodied music — thing of thought — 
All goddess — ^like the fabled birth 

Of Pallas from the brain — 
Fair creature, that I knew on earth 

Might meet me ne'er again. 

" Not that her garb was so divine. 

Though that was sweet to trace : 
The silken web, the glittering mine, 

What add they to such grace ? 
The blazing gem, the Tyrian dye, 

The varied pomp of dress ; 
The stars that seek the western sky 

Obscure their loveliness ! 

" 'Tis only in the depths of blue. 

When night has quench'd the rays 
Of eve, with every gorgeous hue 

We see their beauty blaze ; 
When twilight o'er the earth is spread, 

Or morning's opal swells : 
Such are the hours these wonders shed 
Their softest, holiest spells. 



THE CAPTIVE. 31 

"And woman's form, and woman's glance, 

And woman's fond caress ; 
! what can woman's love enhance ! 

Or what can make it less ! 
Hath she not cast a spell sublime 

O'er the hapless fate of man, 
In every age, in every clime. 

Since being first began ? 

" Hath she not cheer'd the darkest doom, 

And dried the bitterest tear — 
The scaffold and the dungeon's gloom. 

The death-couch and the bier ? 
The peasant, in his humble cot. 

The conqueror, in his fame ; 
Have they not sigh'd where she was not, 

And smiled where'er she came ? 

" The bard, within his rosy bowers ; 

The monarch, on his throne. 
Mid softest isles of opening flowers. 

And music's sweetest tone ; 
Where piles of gems and marble rose 

O'er shrines and altars round, 
And waters lull'd them to repose 

With their sweet and murmuring sound : . 



32 THE CAPTIVE. 

" Have we not heard e 'en these deplore 

The fate of those who live. 
And vainly sigh for something more 

Than wealth alone can give ? 
Then yield the pride and pomp to those 

"Whom luxury hath nursed : 
Be mine to gaze, at daylight's close, 

As heaven beheld her first, 

" On woman's soft and dreamy brow, 

Her form's immortal mould — 
Her canopy the fragrant bough. 

Her dress the simple fold 
Of those by ancient sculptors given. 

To clothe but not conceal 
Those beauties of the gods in heaven 

They could not all reveal. 

"And such were hers ; for careless furl'd 

Her morning robe of white, 
As those that in the spirit-world 

Are worn by forms of light ; 
Or like the glittering foam above 

The billows wild and free, 
When softly rose the Queen of Love 

All glowing from the sea! 



THE CAPTIVE. 33 

" She paused, in pity of my pain : 

It seem'd an age to me, 
While, trembhng, that accursed chain 

She loosed, and I was free ! 
* Haste !' said she, ' haste thee ! that canoe ! 

While yet thy foemen sleep, 
Fly ! get thee o'er yon waters blue ; 

Thou 'rt safe upon the deep. 

'* ^And when some captive sues to thee, 

Mid the battle's crimson strife. 
Then, warrior, then think of me, 

And yield the boon of hfe.' 
Oh, God ! how is thy love repaid, 

Thou well-remembered one ! 
Would that my heart had sheath'd the blade 

This hellish deed hath done ! 

" Too late ! But this, thy own fair child, 

Shall safely live to be 
The ruler of this boundless wild, 

That now is ruled by me." 
He said, and clasp'd him to his breast, 

And soothed his infant moan. 
And bore him to the far off west 

To heir his forest throne. 



E PLIJEIBUS IJJSrUM. 



Tho' many and bright are the stars that appear 

In that flag, by our country unfurl'd ; 
And the stripes that are swelling in majesty there 

Like a rainbow adorning the world; 
Their hght is unsullied, as those in the sky, 

By a deed that our fathers have done; 
And they 're leagued in as true and as holy a tie, 

In their motto of "many in one." 

From the hour when those patriots fearlessly flung 

That banner of starlight abroad, 
Ever true to themselves, to that motto they clung 

As they clung to the promise of God : 
By the bayonet traced at the midnight of war, 

On the fields where our glory was won, 
perish the heart or the hand that would mar 

Our motto of " many in one." 



E PLURIBUS UNUM. 35 

Mid the smoke of the contest — the cannon's deep 
roar 

How oft it has gather'd renown ; 
While those stars were reflected in rivers of gore, 

When the Cross and the Lion went down; 
And tho' few were the lights in the gloom of that 
hour, 

Yet the hearts that were striking below 
Had God for their bulwark, and truth for their power, 

And they stopp'd not to number the foe. 

From where our Green Mountain tops blend with 
the sky, 

And the giant St. Lawrence is rolled. 
To the waves where the balmy Hesperides lie. 

Like the dream of some prophet of old. 
They conquer'd; and dying bequeath'd to our care, 

Not this boundless dominion alone. 
But that banner whose loveliness hallows the air, 

And their motto of "many in one." 

We are " many in one " while there glitters a star 

In the blue of the heavens above ; 
And tyrants shall quail 'mid their dungeons afar, 

When they gaze on that motto of love. 



36 E PLURIBUS UNUM. 

It sliall gleam o'er the sea, 'mid the bolts of the 
storm — 
Over tempest and battle and wreck — 
And flame where our guns with their thunder grow 
warm, 
'Neath the blood on the slippery deck. 

The oppress'd of the earth to that standard shall fly, 

Wherever its folds shall be spread ; 
And the exile shall feel 'tis his own native sky 

Where its stars shall float over his head : 
And those stars shall increase till the fullness of time 

Its millions of cycles has run — 
Till the world shall have welcomed its mission 
sublime. 

And the nations of earth shall be one. 

Though the old Alleghany may tower to heaven, 

And the Father of Waters divide, 
The links of our destiny cannot be riven 

While the truth of those words shall abide. 
Then, ! let them glow on each helmet and brand, 

Tho' our blood like our rivers should run; 
Divide as we may in our own native land, 

To the rest of the world we are one I 



E PLURIBUS UNUM. 37 

Then up with our flag ! Let it stream on the air ! 

Tho' our fathers are cold in their graves, 
They had hands that could strike — they had souls 
that could dare — 

And their sons were not born to be slaves. 
Up, up with that banner ! Where'er it may call, 

Our millions shall rally around; 
And a nation of freemen that moment shall fall. 

When its stars shall be trail'd on the ground. 



THE SONG OF lEOJST. 



Heave the bellows and pile the fire, 

Like the red and fearful glow 
Where the crater's lurid clouds aspire 

O'er the darkened plains below; 
Let the weight of your pond'rous hammers smite 

With the power of the mountain stream ; 
Or thunder beneath the earthquake might 

That dwells in the arm of steam ! 

Tho' I cannot boast the diamond's hue, 

The tempting gleam of gold, 
With which, by the arts of the grasping few 

The nations are bought and sold; 
Yet is my presence more priceless far 

Than the blaze of each royal gem, 
That ever has kindled a ducal star, 

Or flamed in a diadem. 



THE SONG OP IRON. 39 

In the fearful depths of the rayless mine 

My giant strength was laid, 
Ere the sun, or the moon, or the stars that shine 

In the boundless heavens, were made ; 
Ere darkness was rolled from the deep away; 

Ere the skies were spread abroad ; 
Ere the words that called up the light of day 

Were breathed by the lips of God ! 

Ye were but a poor and powerless race 

Till ye wisely sought my aid ; 
Ye dwelt, like the beasts of the savage chase, 

In the gloom of the forest shade; 
Where often the nomad yielded his hearth 

To the wolf, in pale affright, 
And the tooth of the lion stained the earth 

With the blood of the troglodyte. 

How helpless ye saw the descending rain 

The water's resistless flow. 
The frost that sear'd the verdant plain, 

And the blinding drifts of snow ! 
For you no steer his neck would yield, 

No steed your slave would be; 
Ye traced no furrows along the field. 

No pathways o'er the sea! 



40 THE SONG OF IRON. 

The myriad stars came forth at even ; 

The bow of God was bent, 
Inscribing the wondrous laws of heaven 

O'er the measureless firmament; 
Bright constellations rose and fled ; 

The fair moon waxed and waned; 
But the record which they nightly spread 

Unknown to you remained. 

But when some prescient spark of mind 

Invaded my lone retreat, 
And ye learned my Proteus form to bind 

And fashion with fervent heat. 
The gleaming sword from the flames leap'd out, 

And the hook for the golden grain ; 
And the air grew vocal with freedom's shout 

Where the tyrants of earth were slain ! 

Then rose the dome and the lofty tower 

Where the groaning forest fell; 
And the massive guns look'd frowning o'er 

The walls of the citadel. 
The dizzy and tapering steeple sprung. 

And flash'd in the summer air : 
And the pendent bell in the turret swung 

To summon the world to prayer ! 



THE SONG OF IRON. 41 

Stout ships encounter'd the howling storms 

On the trackless sea secure ; 
For I held the fate of their gallant forms, 

And my grasp is strong and sure. 
Midst the lightning's gleam, and the tempest's roar, 

They feared not the angry main. 
For they cast their trusty anchors o'er, 

And laughed at the hurricane. 

At my touch the massive column soar'd ! 

The graceful arch was thrown ! 
And forms of beauty the world adored 

E-ose up in deathless stone ! 
Ye rival'd the tints of the blushing dawn 

With the hues my dust supplied. 
Till the humblest work of art has shown 

Like the mist by rainbows dyed. 

I come where the suffering patient lies 

On his couch, all wan and weak, 
And the lustre returns to his sunken eyes, 

And the bloom to his pallid cheek. 
Ye fear not the roar of the thunder loud; 

Ye sleep with the storms around; 

For the bolt I clutch in the threatening cloud, 

Falls harmless to the ground. 
4 



42 THE SONG OF IRON". 

Where I tread, the crooked paths grow straight, 

The old hills disappear ; 
And I draw each distant hostile State 

In friendly commerce near ! 
Swift through my veins by the lightning hurl'd. 

Your thoughts like the tempest sweep, 
Till knowledge has cover'd the rolling world, 

As the waters have cover'd the deep. 

And soon ye shall see my massive- ore 

In many a grander pile 
Than ever adorned the Tiber's shore, 

Or the banks of the ancient Nile. 
The sacred temple shall rear its roof, 

The cottage for social glee, 
The frowning fortress, thunder-proof, 

And the ships of every sea. 

Then hurrah ! ye fearless sons of toil ! 

Your nation's strength and pride ! 
May ye reap a harvest of golden spoil 

O'er the earth and the ocean wide ! 
May your ponderous hammers ever smite 

With the power of the mountain stream; 
Or thunder beneath the earthquake might 

That dwells in the arm of steam .' 



THE so:n^g of steam. 



Harness me down with your iron bands; 

Be sure of your curb and rein : 
Eor I scorn the power of your puny hands, 

As the tempest scorns a chain. 
How I laughed as I lay conceal'd from sight 

For many a countless hour, 
At the childish boast of human might, 

And the pride of human power. 

"When I saw an army upon the land, 

A navy upon the seas, 
Creeping along, a snail-like band. 

Or waiting the wayward breeze ; 
When I marked the peasant faintly reel 

With the toil which he daily bore. 
As he feebly turned the tardy wheel, 

Or tugged at the weary oar ; 



44 THE SONG OF STEAM. 

When I measured the panting courser's speed, 

The flight of the courier dove, 
As they bore the law a king decreed. 

Or the lines of impatient love, 
I could not but think how the world would feel. 

As these were outstripp'd afar, 
When I should be bound to the rushing keel, 

Or chain'd to the flying car. 

Ha ! ha ! ha ! they found me at last ; 

They invited me forth at length ; 
And I rush'd to my throne with a thunder-blast, 

And laughed in my iron strength. 
then ye saw a wondrous change 

On the earth and the ocean wide. 
Where now my fiery armies range. 

Nor wait for wind or tide. 



A 



Hurrah ! hurrah ! the waters o'er 
( The mountain's steep decline ; 

Time — space — ^have yielded to my power; 

The world ! the world is mine ! 
The rivers the sun hath earliest blest. 

Or those where his beams decline ; 
The giant streams of the queenly west, 

Or the orient floods divine : 



THE SONG OF STEAM. 46 

The ocean pales where'er I sweep — 

I hear my strength rejoice ; 
And the monsters of the briny deep 

Cower, trembling, at my voice. 
I carry the wealth and the lord of earth, 

The thoughts of his godlike mind; 
The wind lags after my going forth, 

The lightning is left behind. 

In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine, 

My tireless arm doth play ; 
Where the rocks never saw the sun decline, 

Or the dawn of the glorious day. 
I bring earth's glittering jewels up 

From the hidden caves below, 
And I make the fountain's granite cup 

With a crystal gush o'erflow. 

I blow the bellows, I forge the steel, 

In all the shops of trade ; 
I hammer the ore and turn the wheel 
, Where my arms of strength are made; 
I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint ; 

I carry, I spin, I weave ; 
And all my doings I put into print. 

On every Saturday eve. 



46 THE SONG OF STEAM. 

I've no muscle to weary, no breast to decay, 

No bones to be " laid on the shelf," 
And soon I intend you may " go and play/' 

While I manage this world myself. 
But harness me down with your iron bands 

Be sure of your curb and rein : 
For I scorn the power of your puny hands, 

As the tempest scorns a chain. 



THE SONG OF COMMERCE 



COME from the dull, tame round of life, 

From the paths so vainly trod — 
From the arts of man and his petty strife, 

O'er the glad waves come abroad. 
The compass shall guide our trackless way 

O'er the wild, wild wastes we roam, 
When the clouds obscure the light of day 

Ajid the sea is white with foam. 

With song and cheer we haste to launch 

Our barques o'er the waters blue — 
Their giant ribs are strong and staunch 

As the hills whereon they grew. 
They are hewn from out the veteran oak 

That centuries hath withstood 
The rending force of the thunder-stroke. 

In the ranks of the ancient wood. 



48 THE SONG OF COMMEECE. 

For masts we' 11 rear the mountain pine, 

That far to the northward grows, 
Whose lofty boughs, like emeralds, shine 

O'er the drifting polar snows. 
We '11 stay them with sinuous cordage taut, 

That under a press of sail 
They will not spring when the tack is brought, 

And she heels to the rushing gale. 

With each studding and top-gallant sheet, 

With her royals poised in air. 
And skysails like the clouds that meet. 

When the heavens for change prepare — 
And proudly o'er all our Union stars. 

From her tapering topmast high. 
With the earthquake shouts of her gallant tars, 

We '11 fling to their native sky. 

Then away from the landsman's wilder'd view 

Shall fleet her graceful form 
The spray of the alpine billows through, 

With the speed of the flying storm. 
Thou hast no kings or groaning slaves 

Thou ancient glorious Sea ! 
Thou realm of wild and restless waves. 

Thou home of the fearless free! 



THE SONG OF COMMERCE. 49 

Hurrah ! o'er thy boundless fields we roam, 

O'er thy billows skyward rolled, 
Emboss'd by the white caps' glittering foam. 

And fretted with solar gold ; 
And when descending the curtain'd west 

Day's lingering beams expire, 
Our highway o'er thy heaving breast 

Shall brighten with gleams of fire. 

We '11 view the glowing Eden Isles 

O'er thy orient azure rise. 
Like the cloth of gold the sunset piles 

O'er the hills of the evening skies. 
We '11 view the glittering iceberg roll 

Where the ocean is frozen white. 
As we slacken sail at the sunless pole 

By the glare of the northern light. 

Ye shall see the wealth of every shore 

In our priceless cargo shine — 
The gleaming piles of golden ore. 

And the gems of every mine. 
Then speeding over our course sublime 

With our cloud of sails unfurl'd, . 

We '11 hasten back to our native clime, 

From our race around the world. 
5 



THE SONG OP COMMERCE. 

Who talks of war? We have guns below, 

And steel of the truest make; 
And where is the vain and reckless foe 

Their thunder shall dare to wake ? 
Our peaceful flag, that ne'er did blanch 

Where the smoke of the contest grew, 
Though it bears the shade of the olive branch, 

Is gleaming with arrows too ! 

And the deeds of Our lion-hearted sires 

With the hues of that flag are known, 
That now is flashing its starry fires 

In the clouds of every zone ; 
The tide from their clotted scuppers pour'd 

Made crimson the dark blue main. 
When the stricken foe hath seen them board 

Like the rush of the hurricane. 

Should his hostile flag appear again 

O'er the tiers of his silenced guns. 
The blood his shattered bulwark stains 

Shall prove that we 're their sons — 
The war-cry of that glorious band 

Shall revive on every breeze 
'' The freedom of our native land, 

The freedom of the seas !" 



SONG OF THE PESTILENCE. 



There, is silence where late 

Was the roar of the mart, 
As the whisper of fate, 

As the hush of the heart, 
When the conqueror of life 

Lays his chill on the breast, 
And the brain from its strife 

Sinks for ever to rest. 

There is not a sound 

In the shop — in the mill: 
The wheel goes not round j 

The hammer lies still. 
There 's a solemn repose, 

There 's a fearful accord. 
Such as faith only throws 

O'er the day of the Lord. 



62 SONG OF THE PESTILENCE. 

They raise not the steam, 

They spread not the sail, 
Tho' high foams the stream, 

Tho' freshens the gale j 
The keel and the oar 

Are asleep on the wave. 
And the desolate shore 

Is as mute as the grave. 

The steer roams the mead 

Without labor or thrall, 
And the generous steed 

Is at rest in the stall; 
The plough doth half-way 

Mid the furrow remain. 
And the reapers delay 

Ere they gather the grain. 

And woman is weeping, 

And manhood is bowed, 
And mourners are keeping 

Their watch by the shroud : 
From the land is withdrawn 

Every sound, every breath, 
Save where slowly moves on 

The processions of death : 



SONG OF THE PESTILENCE. 53 

There are ships on the seas 

That will come not to shore, 
For I 've tainted the breeze 

And the billows that bore; 
The waves felt the doom 

Of my wings as I past,. 
And a shadow of gloom 

O'er the ocean was cast. 

Ha ! ha ! how the thieves 

Love to prowl in my train ! 
How the old miser grieves 

As he clutches his gain, 
When he feels that his grasp 
• On his treasure grows cold, 
And sinks with a gasp 

O'er his powerless gold! 

Ha! heard ye that scream? 

'Tis the middle of night. 
Yet the street and the stream 

Are all ruddy with light; 
They fly from their home, 

Whence in terror it came. 
For the porch and the dome 
. Are enveloped in flame. 



54 SONG OP THE PESTILENCE. 

All ! vainly that shout 

On the breezes may swell, 
Or in thunder ring out 

The wild tones of the bell 
O'er death's silent pillow 

That cry is in vain ; 
Roll on thou red billow 

There 's none to restrain. 

In vain from his hearth 

Shall the recreant flyj 
I 've infected the earth, 

I have poison'd the sky; 
Destruction is shower'd 

O'er my terrible path, 
Like the curse that is pour'd 

By the Angel of wrath. 

No banners are streaming, 

No trumpets are blown. 
No sabres are gleaming, 

No lances are thrown; 
Yet thick as the slain 

Where the battle is red. 
The hills and the plain 

Have I cover'd with dead. 



SONG OF THE PESTILENCE.' 55 

As the bolt that has motion 

Where lightnings are warmj 
As the waves of the ocean; 

The wrecks of the storm; 
The scourge of the world, 

I must wander abroad 
Till my pinions are furl'd 

At the bidding of God. 



THE SONG OF LIGHTNING. 



Away ! away ! through the sightless air 

Stretch forth your iron thread ! 
For I would not dim my sandals fair 

With the dust ye tamely tread!' 
Ay, rear it up on its million piers — 

Let it circle the world around — 
And the journey ye make in a hundred years 

' I'll clear at a single bound ! 

Tho' I cannot toil, like the groaning slave 

Ye have fetter'd with iron skill 
To ferry you over the boundless wave, 

Or grind in the noisy mill, 
Let him sing his giant strength and speed I 

Why, a single shaft of mine 
Would give that monster a flight indeed, 

To the depths of the ocean's brine! 



THE SONG OF LIGHTNING. 57 

No ! no ! I 'm the spirit of light and love ! 

To my unseen hand 'tis given 
To pencil the ambient clouds above 

And polish the stars of heaven ! 
I scatter the golden rays of fire 

On the horizon far below, 
And deck the sky where storms expire 

With my red and dazzling glow. 

The deepest recesses of earth are mine j 

I traverse its silent core ; 
Around me the starry diamonds shine, 

And the sparkhng fields of ore : 
And oft I leap from my throne on high 

To the depths of the ocean caves, 
Where the fadeless forests of coral lie 

Far under the world of waves. 

My being is like a lovely thought 

That dwells in a sinless breast ; 
A tone of music that ne'er was caught ; 

A word that was ne'er express'd ! 
I dwell in the bright and burnish'd halls 

Where the fountains of sunlight play, 
Where the curtain of gold and opal falls 

O'er the scenes of the dying day. 



58 THE SONG OF LIGHTNING. 

With a glance I cleave the sky in twain ; 

I light it with a glare, 
When fall the boding drops of rain 

Through the darkly-curtain'd air : 
The rock-built towers, the turrets gray, 

The piles of a thousand years, 
Have not the strength of potter's clay 

Beneath my glittering spears. 

From the Alps' or the Andes' highest crag, 

From the peaks of eternal snow, 
The blazing folds of my fiery flag 

Illumine the world below. 
The earthquake heralds my coming power, 

The avalanche bounds away, 
Aiid howling storms at midnight's hour 

Proclaim my kingly sway. 

Ye tremble when my legions come — 

When my quivering sword leaps out 
O'er the hills that echo my thunder drum 

And rend with my joj^ous shout. 
Ye quail on the land or upon the seas 

Ye stand in your fear aghast. 
To see me burn the stalworth trees 

Or shiver the stately mast. 



THE SONG OF LIGHTNING. 59 

The hieroglyphs on the Persian wall — 

The letters of high command — 
Where the prophet read the tyrant's fall, 

Were traced by my burning hand. 
And oft in fire have I wrote, since then, 

What angry Heaven decreed ; 
But the sealed eyes of sinful men, 

Were all too bhnd to read. 

At length the hour of light is here, 

And kings no more shall bind, 
Nor bigots crush with craven fear, 

The forward march of mind. 
The words of Truth and Freedom's rays 

Are from my pinions hurl'd ; 
And soon the light of better days 

Shall rise upon the world. 

But away ! away ! through the sightless air 

Stretch forth your iron thread ! 
For I would not dim my sandals fair 

With the dust ye tamely tread! 
Ay ! rear it up on its thousand piers — 

Let it circle the world around — 
And the journey ye make in a hundred years 

I'll clear at a single bound. 



THE PRESS. 



Soul of tlie world ! the Press ! the Press ! 

What wonders hast thou wrought I 
Thou rainbow realm of mental bliss j 

Thou starry sky of thought ! 
As dew unto the thirsty flowers ; 

As the blessed light of heaven ; 
And widely as the summer showers,, 

Thy silent aid is given. 

Yet, canst thou flame upon the earth 

Like the dread volcano's glow ; 
And tyrants trembled at thy birth 

As at an earthquake's throe. 
Hast thou not lit the darkest land, 

And broke the fellest chain 
That despot's red accursed hand 

Shall never forge again ? 



THE PRESS. 61 

Another sun ! Thy brightness rose 

O'er the dark benighted world, 
And on thj panic-stricken foes 

Thy lightning flashes hurl'd. 
Dark Superstition crouch'd where'er 

Thy thunder scathing fell ; 
And the murderous bigot quaked with fear, 

As at the flames of hell ! 

And priestly craft and kingly power 

Have striven to bind thee down; 
But ah, how low beneath thee cower 

The mitre and the crown ! 
Thy nod can lop the proudest head ; 

The world thy sceptre owns ; 
The path thou dost to glory tread, 

That path is paved with thrones ; 

Yet art thou gentle as the breeze — 

The latest breath of day ; 
But chainless as the mighty seas. 

In thy resistless sway. 
At thy command the seals were broke 

That bound the mighty deep ; 
And liberty and truth awoke 

From centuries of sleep, 



62 THE PKESS. 

When forth to every sinful shore 
' That man in darkness trod, 

Thy bright and speeding pinions bore 

The beacon words of God. 
The sage's lamp, the muse's lyre; 

Thou brought'st o'er ocean's foam; 
The stellar light of vestal fire ; 

The eloquence of Rome. 

Then music rose in Runic climes, 

And the isles of barbarous seas 
First heard Athenia's words sublime — 

Thy words, Demosthenes ! 
And Plato's lore, and Sappho's lay, 

O'er other lands were borne, 
"Where late were heard the wild foray 

And the hunter's winding horn. 

Thou flag of truth ! Thy folds have stream'd 

O'er many a field of blood ; 
And o'er the wreck of empires gleam'd, 

Like the rainbow o'er the flood : 
The patriot's eye still turns to thee, 

And hails thee from afar. 
As the wanderer of the trackless sea 

Hath hail'd his guiding star. 



THE PRESS. 63 

Thou torch of hope ! Thy blaze shall hum 

O'er millions yet to be, 
And flame above the funeral urn 

Of bonds and slavery! 
The world already hails thy light, 

As the Chaldeans of old, 
When flashing o'er the clouds of night 

The Star of Bethlehem roU'd. 

Like the letters on the Persian wall, 

But plainer to be read. 
Is thy ever-bright and burning scroll, 

That tyrants mark with dread. 
O'er sceptre, throne, and diadem 

Hang thy portentous glare — 
Like the sword o'er lost Jerusalem, 

Suspended in the air. 

While to the hearthstone of the hall 

And to the cottage hearth 
Thou bring' st a daily festival 

Of nameless — priceless worth, 
Thou lightest up the pallid cheek 

Of the deserted poor. 
And to the captive, worn and weak, *• 

Openest the prison door. 



64 THE PRESS. 

ever in tliy banner bright, 

Let truth and virtue blend ! 
Be ever — ever — in the right ! 

Be ever labor's friend 1 
His strong and honest arm shall be 

Thy bulwark in distress ; 
God bless the land of liberty ! 

God save our country's press ! 



NEYEK. 



»' I may be asked, as I have been asked, when I am for the dissolution 
of the Union? I answer: Never — never — never!" — Henry Clay. 



You ask me when I'd rend the scroll 

Our fathers' names are written o'er; 
When I would see our flag unroll 

Its mingled stars and stripes no more ; 
When with a worse than felon hand 

Or felon counsel, I would sever 
The Union of this glorious land; 

I answer : Never — never — never ! 

Think ye that I could hrook to see 

The banner I have loved so long, 
Borne piecemeal o'er the distant sea ; 

Torn, trampled by a frenzied throng ; 
Divided, measured, parcell'd out ; 

Tamely surrender'd up for ever, 
To gratify a soulless route 

Of traitors ? Never — ^never — never ! 

Give up this land to lawless might 
To selfish fraud and villain sway ; 
6 



66 NEVEE. 

Obscure those hopes with endless night 
That now are rising hke the day ; 

Write one more page of burning shame 
To prove the useless, vain endeavor 

Our race from ruin to reclaim, 

And close the volume? Never — never. 

On yonder lone and lovely steep, 

The sculptor's art, the builder's power, 
A landmark o'er the soldier's sleep, 

Have rear'd a lofty funeral tower ; 
There it will stand until the river 

That rolls beneath shall cease to flow, 
Aye, till that hill itself shall quiver 

With nature's last convulsive throe. 

Upon that column's marble base, 

That shaft that soars into the sky, 
There still is room enough to trace 

The countless millions yet to die ! 
And I would cover all its hight 

And breadth, before that hour of shame 
Till space should fail whereon to write 

Even the initials of a name.* 



* Mr. Clay's very words, as lie pointed to the monument that stands upon 
the hight near Frankfort, above the slain of Buena Vista, including the re- 
mains of his own son. 



NEVER 67 

Dissolve the Union ! mar, remove 

The last asylum that is known, 
"Where patriots find a brother's love. 

And truth may shelter from a throne ! 
Give up the hopes of high renown, 

The legacy our fathers will'd ! 
Tear our victorious eagles down 

Before their mission is fulfill 'd ! 

Dissolve the Union — while the earth 

Has yet a tyrant to be slain ! 
Destroy our freedom in its birth, 

And give the world to bonds again ! 
Dissolve the Union ! God of Heaven ! 

We know too well how much it cost : 
A million bosoms shall be riven 

Before one golden link is lost. 

Nay, spread aloft our banner folds 

High as the heavens they resemble, 
That every race this planet holds 

Beneath their shadow may assemble, 
And with the rainbow's dazzling pride 

Or clouds that burn along the skies, 
Inscribe upon its margin wide 

Hope, Freedom, Union, Compromise. - 



HENEY CLAY.* 



Thotj art not fallen, Eagle One ! 

As cloudless and as bright 
Thy starry name still glitters on 

In glory's solar light, 
As when above the din of arms 

Thy trumpet accents rose — 
A tocsin at whose wild alarms, 

Thy countrymen arose j 

And rallying to each hill and plain, 

To every sea and shore, 
They won those victories o'er again 

Their fathers won of yore. 
Or when from out the Senate hall 

Thy name — a spell — went forth 
To bid the Southern banners fall 

To calm the raging North ; 

* It may be necessary to observe that the ode to the Honorable Henry 
Clay was written and published immediately after the close of his last 
Presidential canvass, under the influence of those strong and abiding 
emotions that moment was so well calculated to inspire. 



HENRY CLAY. 69 

When gather'd up thy mighty hand 

The fragments of that chain — 
The union of this glorious land — 

And bound its links again. 
Thou art not fallen, faithful one ! 

Thy name is still sublime, 
Not in thy native land alone, 

But many a distant clime ! 

Where Freedom struggles with her chains 

In southern lands afar, 
A halo round thy memory reigns 

That rivals Bolivar. 
And in those memorable isles 

Where Liberty had birth ; 
Where still a sky of glory smiles, 

O'er ever-classic earth, 

Upon the breeze thy name hath flown, 

A talisman of bliss. 
And mingles there with Marathon, 

Thermop'lse, Salamis. 
Dear as the flag our sires unfurl'd 

To wave o'er land and sea, 
Thy name is hail'd throughout the world, 

Thou guardian of the free ! 



70 HENRY CLAY. 

Thou art not fallen, glorious one! 

And now the struggle 's o'er, 
Kentucky hails her noble son 

As proudly as before ; 
And joys to know that even now, 

When slander's worst is done, 
They could not tear from off thy brow 

The wreaths already won. 

The petty power by party lent 

A nameless nominee ! 
The empty title — President ! 

What could they add to thee ? 
Go, place new colors in the skies ; 

Add to each star a ray ; 
Give to the rainbow fresher dyes; 

More light to the god of day : 
But deem not ye can ever mar 

Or decorate a name 
So long the bright and polar star 

Upon the sky of fame ! 



SOJS'G OF THE FIRE ANNIHILATOR. 



BEAR me forth to each distant land, 
• And the scenes that ye so deplore — 
The midnight blaze, the incendiary's brand 

Shall ravage the world no more. 
Where your burning palaces light the skies 

Like a signal of doom and death, 
The flame that your utmost strength defies 

I '11 quench with a single breath. 

No more shall an Ilium in ashes lay, 

Or the walls of a Moscow glow. 
Where captive armies are led away, 

Or buried in polar snow. 
By the power that dwells in my viewless arm, 

I '11 render your race secure 
From this wide destruction and wild alarm, 

While the universe shall endure. 



72 SONG OF THE FIRE ANNIHILATOK 

How oft from my home in the silent deep, 

Where the sun no radiance flings, 
Where the grim and terrible earthquakes sleep 

In the night of my sable wings, 
Have I mark'd the efforts ye vainly made, 

When the hosts of the fire-fiend came 
With his marshall'd columns of smoke array'd, 

And his banners of bursting flame. 

How oft have I seen your peaceful homes 

With the hues of the evening red ; 
The morning came, and a hundred domes 

With the dreams of the night were fled. 
The blacken'd ruins remain'd to tell 

Where your costly halls had stood, 
And the piercing storms of the winter fell 

On a shelterless multitude. 

A ship I saw on the heaving main. 

She had baffled the howling storm ; 
She had 'scaped the fearful hurricane 

That grappled her noble form; 
With a tranquil sea and a favoring gale, 

With her helm in a trusty hand, 
She bore away 'neath a press of sail 

For the shores of her native land. 



SONG OF THE FIRE ANNIIIILATOR 73 

But sudden a dark and fearful wreath 

O'er her flying tafferel curl'd, 
And the flames leap'd up from the hold beneath, 

Like fiends from the penal world. 
Her glowing canvas strew'd the blast, 

Like the trail of malignant stars ; 
And the light far over the ocean cast, 

Was the blaze of her burning spars. 

But the day of that triumph at last is here. 

Which so long I have sigh'd to hail; 
And never again on this lovely sphere 

Shall the blight of this fiend prevail. 
The breath of my power the world shall free; 

The flames shall destroy no more ; 
For I will be master of every sea, 

And the guardian of every shore ; 

The hand of science that called me forth 

My sceptre shall now obey ; 
From the curse of this ruin 1 11 shield the earth 

Till the planets themselves decay ; 
Till the solemn end of that final day. 

When the stars from heaven shall fall. 
And I myself shall be swept away 

Li the fire that consumeth all. 

7 



74 SONG OF THE FIEE ANNIHILATOR. 

Then bear me forth to each distant land 
And the scenes that ye so deplore — 

The midnight blaze — the incendiary's brand- 
Shall ravage the world no more. 

When your burning palaces light the skies, 
Like a signal of doom and death, 

The flame that your utmost strength defies 

I '11 quench with a single breath. 



THE DEATH OF OSCEOLA. 



Tis winter ; but a soutliern sky 

A southern sun illumes, 
Where soft the tropic zephyrs sigh, 

And bright the orange blooms ; 
The city's joyous shade is given 

Back from the glossy stream, 
As gorgeous as the clouds of heaven 

And tranquil as a dream. 

But, list ! from out yon distant tower,. 

Like night-wind's fitful flow 
Within some lone and leafless bower, 

The captives' wail of wo ! 
Ay! from those dark embattled cells, 

O'er the water's sunny sweep, 
Even now the voice of sorrow swells 

From those who rarely weep. 



76 THE DEATH OF OSCEOLA. 

Yes, from a wild a;Qd eagle race 

Free as the ocean's foam, 
The wilderness their dwelling place 

The mountain's side their home ; 
With souls that torture may not move. 

With lips that smile at fate, 
Undying is their changeless love, 

And quenchless is their hate. 

The 've gather'd round a warrior's Her, 

Those forest children now. 
And gently put the raven hair 

From off his marble brow. 
Ah ! fondly do they hope to trace 

Some memory lingering there, 
Some line upon that glorious face 

That death still deigns to spare. 

Oh God ! how beautiful is death 

With features of such mould ; 
To those who watch the fleeting breath 

How fair, but how cold ! 
Is this the lip, whose lightest word 

Roused like the bugle's cry ? 
Is this the eye, whose glance hath fir'd 

The ranks of victory ? 



THE DEATH OF OSCEOLA. 77 

Is this the same, this gentle form, 

That late so glorious tower'd 
The giant of the battle storm 

That o'er his country lower'd ? 
The hand that in the red array 

So fearfully hath dealt 
The lightning of the battle fray 

That shiver'd armies felt? 

No solemn notes of martial wo ; 

No forming army's hum ; 
No half-furl'd banner's weeping flow ; 

No roll of muffled drum ; 
No minute-gun's lone sobbing tone, 

O'er tower and bastion hurl'd, 
As erst when to the sky hath flown 

The war-gods of the world. 

'Tis well ! for what hath pomp, or power, 

War's crimson panoply, 
Or science, earth's almighty dower, 

Wherewith to honor thee ? 
Give these to men of christian birth. 

Who, for such hollow things. 
Deluge with christian blood the earth — 

To kings and slaves of kings. 



78 THE DEATH OE OSCEOLA. 

'Tis well ! for in his glorious name 

All other names grow dim ; 
Then what is form or trophied fame ! 

what are they to him ! 
Enough, to know at freedom's call 

He bled at every vein, 
Then pined within a prison wall, 

And shrank beneath a chain. 

But hsten to a people's cry 

You 've wrong'd for many a year ; 
No more let interest shroud your eye, 

Or avarice close your ear ; 
From many a mountain altar 

It swells on every breeze ; 
let your steel'd hearts falter 

To accents such as these : 

" Did we not own this glorious land, 

Each mountain, lake, and river ? 
"Were they not from Thy sacred hand, 

Our heritage for ever ? 
Where tombs arise and harvest waves 

Our childhood used to stray ; 
We scarce can find our fathers' graves - 

Our fathers — where are they? 



THE DEATH OF OSCEOLA. 79 

Like snow beneath Thy fiery glance, 

Like dew in Thy garments' ray, 
Like bubbles that o'er the ocean dance, 

Our tribes are swept away ! 
Father of Heaven ! We faint, we fall. 

Like leaves on some lonely flood; 
And the earth beneath our conqueror's hall 

Still reeks with Thy children's blood." 



THE bue:n^ikg boat. 



At midnight, o'er the lonely stream 

Came a sound of rushing keels ; 
The rapid shocks of exploding steam, 

And the storm of paddle wheels, 
As two huge boats o'er the waters rave, 

Mid their furnaces' ruddy glare, 
Like island cities o'er the wave, 

Or castles through the air. 

And swift as the comet's fiery track 

O'er the shadowy realms of space, 
They hurl'd the eddying currents back, 

In their mighty and fearful race ; 
On, on, like the lightning's glare, they sweep, 

While each grand and gorgeous form 
Is imaged on the affrighted deep, 

Like the clouds of the sunset storm. 



THE BURNING BOAT. 81 

The steed who at morn the air outflies, 

Ere night becomes oppress'd ; 
And the eagle from the upper skies 

Stoops down to the earth for rest. 
But what is a thousand miles in length ; 

Think ye that space can tire 
Their thundering engine's iron strength, 

Their breath of crackling fire? 

On, on, with the nameless speed of light, 

And a voice like a mighty wind ! 
The path, before them calm and bright, 

Is crush'd to foam behind ! 
The wild-fowl, startled from the shore, 

Flew screaming through the sky ; 
And the woodman sprang to his cabin door, 

As they swept like a tempest by. 

Heaven guard them in their fearful strife, 

For theirs is a priceless freight ; 
A thousand forms of human life — 

The humble and the great ; 
There, angel beauty, rock'd to rest, 

Is slumbering in her berth, 
As calm as if her fair limbs press'd 

The couch by her father's hearth. 



82 THE BUKNING BOAT. 

The mother, won from her fond alarms, 

Her vigil has ceased to keep, 
With her infant nestling in her arms, 

Is smiling in her sleep ; 
Stern manhood, too, with cares oppress'd, 

An exile doom'd to roam. 
Is bless'd in this balmy hour of rest, 

For he dreams of his distant home ! 

There wealth, at ease on heaps of down, 

In sheets of lawn is roll'd — 
In visions of state and high renown. 

And piles of sparkling gold ! 
And there the trader's wasted frame 

On the dark cold deck is lain. 
As home with joy, through storm and flame. 

He hastes with his scanty gain. 

He 's dreaming perchance of his peaceful cot, 

And his fields beside the burn, 
Where the partner of his humble lot 

Will smile at his return. 
On ! swift as the dusky condor's flight, 

Those barks like meteors flew ; 
While echoed the vault of the starless night 

With the cheers ©f each rival crew. 



THE BURNING BOAT. 83 

By heaven, there 's not a sight more fair 

Than they thus careering on ; 
But ah ! what means that awful glare ? 

It cannot be the dawn ; 
For vesper's sable wings are furl'd 

O'er the day-god's fiery car; 
The orient smiles not on the world; 

'Tis night, without a star. 

But list ! a wild explosion loud, 

And flames on flames are driven 
High as the mountain's lava shroud. 

When it fires the clouds of heaven ; 
A cry through the sable welkin floats, 

Of death and anguish dire, 
And the proudest of those gallant boats 

Is a floating funeral pyre ! 

Like a war-steed in the battle flame. 

She paws the hissing tide, 
No reins her frantic course to tame, 

No living hand to guide ; 
But who shall paint the effort made 

The distant shore to gain ? 
How gentle woman shriek'd for aid, 

And shriek'd, God ! in vain ? 



84 THE BURNING BOAT. 

How infancy and helpless years 

Leap'd from the glowing deck ; 
"While fainting crowds o'ercome with fears, 

Go down with the burning wreck ? 
How, when the morning's ray of gold 

Illumed that mighty river, 
It o'er their shroudless corses roll'd 

As it shall roll for ever? 



THE TREASURE. 



In the Duke of Montra's palace high 

A thousand torches burn'd, 
For the Duke with pomp and revelrj 

In triumph had return'd. 
Along the walls rich armor gleam'd, 

And priceless gobelins shone, 
And the hues of Persian carpets seem'd 

Too fair to tread upon. 

Rare vases many flowers confined, 

That gave their breath of love, 
Like incense — to the paintings shrined 

In their golden frames above ; 
And life-like statues through the room, 

And jewel'd tripods stood; 
And censers fragrant with perfume 

From burning sandal wood j 



86 THE TREASUKE. 

And standing in that spacious hall 

Were tables covered o'er 
And heap'd to crown the festival 

From many a distant shore. 
Upon the lofty sideboard spread 

The massive plate did glow ; 
In crystal rare the wine was red 

And glass of Murano; 

And Venice mirrors, broad and tall, 

Made all the scene their own — 
The tap'stries on the marble wall, 

The lights, the ducal throne ; 
While through the lattice, like a dream. 

Soft music floated o'er, 
And shades, like clouds upon a stream, 

Fell on the lighted floor. 

All was now ready — bin and board 

Were waiting ; and full soon 
The noble and the gifted pour'd 

Into that gay saloon. 
With robes from famed Genoa looms 

Bright as the morning skies ; 
And rustling silks, and waving plumes, 

And diamond broideries. 



THE TREASURE. 87 

Kind words and gratulations fell 

From courtly lips that hour ; 
The Duke had gain'd, they knew full well, 

Another step in power ! 
Wit sparkled, and the laugh went round j 

Joy wet their cheeks with tears, 
As they pledged to music's sweetest sound 

The wine of a hundred years. 

Proudly the Duke replied ; but then 

His brow grew dark in wrath, 
And his cheek grew pale as the lordly when 

A traitor mars their path ; 
" Wherefore is this," demanded he ; 

" When did my first-born learn 
To offer this foul insult to me, 

Or dare my gift to spurn ? " 

In haste disturb'd at what was done. 

The princely crowd rose up ; 
The angry parent show'd his son 

With a full untasted cup. 
The boy sprang from his costly seat. 

Tore off his starry crown, 
And humbly at his father's feet 

In tears of grief knelt down. 



88 THE TKEASURE. 

Father, lie said, I learn'd last night 

A. truth that made me start ; 
A horror that might well aflfright 

An older, sterner heart : 
Let me relate it, then decree 

On tears of blood to sup ; 
Tho' death in every drop may be, 

I'll drain the fatal cup. 

Last night I saw a laborer stand 

Where fumes of wine do wreak 
He held within his trembling hand 

The earnings of a week ; 
His wife was near him; on her breast 

A dying babe she bore ; 
And, famishing, two others prest 

Her knees, and wept full sore. 

The laugh, the jeer, the vulgar jest, 

Within that den prevail'd; 
The blasphemy of men unblest 

Her gentle ear assail 'd. 
I With tears that wife entreated long 

He would not enter there. 
But the demon of his thirst was strong, 

He heeded not her prayer. 



THE TEEASURE, 89 

We passed on farther — and there came 

From his home a citizen 
Who should have worn a wreath of fame, 

But wore the scorn of men. 
We saw him in the twilight dim 

Steal from his hearth away, 
Tho' she that gazed long after him 

Was fair as dawning day. 

Long midst the lonely splendor there 

Her restless feet did stray; 
Her lovely hands were clasp'd in prayer 

For him that was away 
Return'd, that manly bosom lay 

Without a sign of life, 
And weeping o'er his worthless clay 

A broken-hearted wife ! 

Again : Before a palace old 

We saw a carriage rest ; 
There flamed upon its burnish'd gold 

A gemm'd and ducal crest ; 
Above its steeds the moonlight stream'd, 

And o'er their harness rare, 
That thick with priceless jewels gleam'd 

And sparkled in the air. 



90 THE TREASURE. 

We paused to see the duke alight; 

He gave no orders then ; 
But soon there came in pale affright 

A troop of serving-men : 
We saw, as through the stately door 

His drooping form was borne, 
His ermined robe was soiled with gore, 

His plumed cap was torn. 

The diamond orders on his breast 

No more the eye did meet, 
And stains were on his snowy vest 

Of many trampling feet. 
His pallid children near him crept, 

As they sadly bore him in, 
And his fair and noble duchess wept 

Like the wife of the citizen. 

Ah, father ! I could not divine 

What so much sorrow meant; 
My tutor said 'twas the work of wine 

In its demon merriment; 
That for every drop that so gaily leaps 

And bubbling sparkles here, 
Some aching heart in sorrow weeps 

Full many a burning tear. 



THE TREASURE. 91 

I shudder'd, father, and in my soul 

Kesolved that ne'er again 
The fiendish Spirit of the bowl 

Should revel o'er my brain; • 
Lest I like those more strong and wise 

Beneath its power should fall, 
To be named with things the good despise, 

A slave in its burning thrall. 

The Duke gazed fondly on his child, 

His loved, his earliest born; 
His stately lip in triumph smiled, 

That had been wreath'd with scorn; 
He laid his hand upon his head 

That there so humbly bow'd, 
And anger from his forehead fled, 

As flees the summer cloud. 

"No, no, my son, thou shalt not taste — 

Tis a fearful thing in sooth — < 
A poison that thy soul would waste; 

Thy tutor told the truth. 
It fires the brain, it darkens thought, 

There is nor tongue nor pen 
Can tell the ruin it hath wrought, 

The curse that it hath been." 



92 THE TREASUKE. 

He gazed around upon each face 

The heart's approval smiled ; 
And proud the haughty sire embraced 
His true, his lovely child : 
" Thou hast a noble boy," they said 

To the delighted Duke; 
" And never from our hearts will fade 
His firm and just rebuke." 

Full many a year has passed away, 

And o'er that banquet scene 
Mid ruin flits the owlet gray, 

And twines the ivy green. 
But princely hands with pious care 

Those gems have treasured up ; 
And far the richest treasure there 

Is that untasted cup ! 



BUENA YISTA. 



Btjena Vista ! thou hast sniil'd 

Like the shores of orient waves, 
But now thou art a dreary wild^ 

A fearful waste of graves. 
All blacken'd is the verdure there 

Where fell the purple rain; 
The vulture sniffs the tainted air. 

The wolf howls o'er the slain. 

And where thy hacienda rose, 

Amidst the linden leaves, 
The weary pilgrim sought repose 

Beneath its friendly eaves ; 
Where the aloe and the orange blooia 

With fragrance fill'd the air, 
The willow and the cypress gloom 

Now wave in silence there. 



94 BUENA VISTA. 

No more that hospitable grove 

In all thy vale is found ; 
No voice, but of the mourning dove, 

Now breaks the silence round ; 
The very roof-tree of the hall 

Is level with the hearth ; 
The fragments of thy chapel wall 

Are strewed upon the earth. 

We saw thee when the morning spread 

Her purple wings on high — 
Beheld at dawn thy mountains dread, 

Like clouds against the sky ; 
And we mark'd thy fairy meadows, 

And thy streamlet's silver sheen, 
Beneath their lofty shadows, 

Along the dark ravine. 

But ah ! we saw another hue 

Spread o'er thy lordly dell, 
"When cannon shook thy sky of blue, 

And war's dread lightning fell ; 
When darl^ness clothed the morning ray, 

And dimm'd thy mountains high ; 
When the fire that kindled up the day 

Went out upon the sky. 



BUENA VISTA. 95 

Upon their arms that weary night 

Our soldiery had lain, 
And many dream'd those visions bright 

They ne'er shall dream again : 
Of maidens of the snowy brow, 

Of sisters, pale with care, 
Of wives, who for our safety bow 

Their loveliness in prayer ; 

Of venerable sires, who stand 

Beneath the cares of state ; 
The mothers of our native land ; 

Our children's artless prate : 
Of quiet vales, of sacred domes, 

Far o'er the heaving sea ; 
The cheerful hearts, the happy homes, 

Our own proud land, of thee ! 

But sudden on each drowsy ear, 

O'er thy dark caverns roll'd 
The notes of death to craven fear — 

The music of the bold. 
The foe ! the foe ! along thy pass. 

His locust horde appears ; 
We saw the sheen of his cuirass — 

The glitter of his spears. 



96 BUENA VISTA. 

As stars that stud the milkj way, 

His glittering lances shine ; 
And the banners of his long array 

Were as the sun's decline. 
The sky grew darker o'er them, 

And murmur'd low and dread ; 
And the solid earth before them, 

Was clouds beneath their tread. 

We gazed upon the iris streams — 

The stars, whose diamond ray 
Upon our Union banner beams — 

Shall they come down to-day ? 
No ! by our country's sacred call ! 

No ! by thy graceful waves ! 
No ! no ! thy stars shall never fall . 

But on our shroudless graves ! 

Then with one fearful wild hurrah, 

The solemn hills rang out ; 
And Echo, from her caves afar. 

Sent back the startling shout : 
The foe recoil'd, his glittering ranks 

O'er all that vale were bright, 
Like a stream that floods its lofty banks 

Beneath the starry night. 



BUENA VISTA. 97 

They halt, and forth on foaming steeds, 

And banners flowing white; 
St. Anna's herald forward speeds 

A parley to invite : 
"Our General, in his meekness 

And mercy, hath designed. 
In pity of your weakness. 

To treat you very kind. 

"He knows how feeble is your strength — 

How poorly arm'd ye are; 
'Tis certain ye must yield at length, 

Or madly perish there ! 
To end at once your foolish hopes. 

To make this statement clear 
Know that three thousand chosen troops 

Are posted in your rear. 

" He hath four and twenty cannon here, 

And twenty thousand men, 
To pour the lava tide of war 

Along this narrow glen : 
Then yield ye, prisoners of his grace. 

And spare the loss of blood. 
Or he '11 sweep you from before his face, 

As foam before the flood." 
9 



98 BUENA VISTA. 

"Here, May, go thou invite him; 

Ye need not tarry long; 
Tell him that I would fight him 

Were he fifty times as strong." 
Thus answer'd Rough and Ready; 

One hurrah rent the sky ! 
And our ranks grew firm and steady 

Beneath his eagle eye. 

Then came their cymbals' ringing clash, 

Shrill fife, and rolling drum; 
The opening cannon's thunder-crash, 

The wildly rending bomb; 
Up rose their sable flag, and cast 

Its stain upon the breeze. 
Like that which from the rover's mast 

Sheds terror o'er the seas. 

We saw it, and we inly swore 

By Him in whom we trust, 
Tho' red with our last drop of gore, 

To trail it in the dust. 
How well that promise has been kept, 

Ye who would seek to know, 
Go ask the kindred who have wept 

O'er trampled Mexico. 



BUENA VISTA. 99 

The trumpet sounds ; the foe moves on 

Along the mountain crag; 
Then burst thy earthquake, Washington] 

And roar'd thy thunder, Bragg! 
Then swift thy wheels, O'Brien, came 

Along the deep defile ; 
And soon before their hghtning flame 

Lay many a ghastly pile ! 

Then Lincoln, of the fiery glance, 

Bestrode his matchless steed ; 
And May, who ever fells a lance 

As lightning fells a reed ; 
And veteran Wool the heady fight 

As nobly did sustain. 
As if the glow of Queenstown Hight 

Had fired his soul again. 

There Marshall urged his foaming steeds, 

With spur and flowing rein — 
And many a lancer flying bleeds, 

And many bite the plain; 
And there brave Mississippi stands 

Amidst the sheeted flame. 
And rapid fall their ruthless bands, 

Before her deadly aim. 



100 BUENA VISTA. 

The cloud that threaten'd in the sky, 

Has burst upon the plain — 
And channels, that so late were dry, 

Are swollen, but not with rain ; 
Young Indiana holds the hight, 

Brave Illinois has charged, 
And Arkansas within the fight 

Her glory has enlarged. 

Still downward from the dizzy hight 

Their gleaming masses reel, 
A Niagara in resistless might — 

An avalanche of steel ; 
Still on their mighty columns move. 

The plain is cover'd o'er — 
The sky is black with clouds above, 

The earth is red with gore. 

Then gleam'd aloft thy polished brand, 

loved and lost McKee ! 
And we heard thy steady clear command, 
"Kentucky, charge with me !" 
As o'er the crackling forest spread 

Volcanic fires of old. 
With flaming steel and bounding tread. 

Our ranks upon them roll'd. 



BUENA VISTA. IQl 

Then deeper still the cannon peal'd, 

And flamed the musketry ; 
And redder blush'd the crimson field, 

And darker grew the day ; 
But soon before our fiery check 

The iron storm roll'd back, 
And left, God ! a mournful wreck 

Along its fearful track ! 

With brows in death more gloomy, 

Amidst the sanguine dews, 
Lay the Guards of Montezuma, 

And the Knights of Vera Cruz; 
And many a cloven helmet, 

And shatter'd spear around, 
And drum, and crimson'd bayonet, 

And banner, strew'd the ground. 

Still our standard in its glory 

Waved o'er the sulphur storm; 
But 'neath it, stiff and gory, 

Lay many a noble form. 
Mingled in death's cold embrace 

There friend and foe appears. 
While o'er them bends full many a face 

That streams with burnins: tears. 



102 BUENA VISTA. 

Oh God ! who could but weep to see 

On the red and trampled lawn 
Thy form, impetuous, brave McKee, 

And thine heroic Vaughn, 
As gather'd up our little bands 

Their comrades where they fell, 
And bore along, with gory hands, 

A Lincoln, Harden, Yell ! 

And oh ! what language can impart 

The sorrow of that day — 
The grief that wrung each manly heart 

For thee, young Henry Clay ! 
The memory of that glorious strife 

Will live in future years, 
To us the darkest page of life — 

The deepest source of tears. 

We saw thee, when the countless horde 

Closed round thee from afar. 
And through the smoke thy gleaming sword 

Became our guiding star ; 
We follow'd till before their might 

Our feeble ranks were riven ; 
Even then thy face was beaming bright 

As if 't were lit from heaven. 



BUENA VISTA. 103 

We saw their steel above thy head 

Flash like a radiant crown ; 
And, like a bolt by lightning sped, 

Thy sabre cleave them, down ; 
And where the fiery tempest pour'd 

Thy hand still waved us on ; 
There still thy trumpet voice was heard; 

There still thy sword was drawn. 

And when the shout of victory 

Kang in thy warrior ears, 
'Twas a triumph to the foe to see 

Thy blood upon their spears ; 
But a mournful shade came back again 

Upon their features wild. 
To see the gory heaps of slain 

Thy single arm had piled. 

Buena Vista ! when the sun 

Set o'er the battle cloud, 
The sulphur vapors, dark and dun, 

Lay o'er thee like a shroud ; 
And the wounded and the dying 

O'er all thy hills were strewn, 
And the red path of the flying 

Was lighted by the moon. 



THE FIKEMAN^. 



There is stern pleasure in the shock of war, 
The wheehng squadron, and the bayonet's jar, 
When martial lines their gleaming fronts enlarge, 
And the earth reels beneath their fierj charge ! 
When battle smoke lowers darkly o'er the land 
Where bleeding Freedom makes her firmest stand, 
Our flag of heaven with burning bars shall glow, 
And flash its starry terrors on the foe ! 
The glittering sabre and the dancing plume 
Shall charm the icy terrors of the tomb ; 
The musket's flame, the rocket's lurid glare, 
And culv'rin bursting on the midnight air ; 
The trumpet's clangor, and the drum's deep roll. 
And booming cannons, fire the warrior's soul ! , 
To know he struggles in a holy cause — 
For God — his country — liberty and laws; 
To see the foe's thinn'd ranks in terror fly; 
To hear from gory lips the shout of victory; 



THE FIREMAN. 105 

For Freedom's realm — the freest 'neath the sky — 
Our own dear native land — it were joy to die ! 

But the poor Fireman, in the direst hour, 
Is doom'd to combat a more fearful power, - 
Without the inspiration he would feel 
Midst banner'd hosts and gleaming ranks of steel. 
When fiery columns o'er our homes arise. 
With their red horror streaming in the skies, 
Too oft, alas ! he sinks amidst the flame 
Unmark'd by history and unknown to fame ; 
For the dire foe with whom he battles there 
A fallen hero ne'er was known to spare ; 
His tameless warfare will no pris'ners save, 
And to the vanquish'd e'en denies a grave. ^ 

blessed hour ! precious time of rest, 

Dear to the weary and the mourning breast ! 

The winds are hushed ; the city hath no sound 

Save the lone clock that measures life's short round, 

Or the blithe cricket singing in the dark. 

Where the swept hearth emits no cheering spark. 

The fireman sleeps ; and in his sunny dream, 

A cottage stands beside a purling stream ; 

A group of pleasure and becoming mirth, 

His babes — his partner — cheer its social hearth; 



106 THE FIREMAK 

While trees of glowing fruit, all fenced about, 
And fields of ripening corn, are seen without; 
His horse — his dog — slee]3 'neath the sunny wall, 
And a blue sky is bending o'er them all. 

But hark ! There bursts upon his startled ear 
A cry that fills the very soul with fear. 
Swelling each instant louder, clearer, higher, 
Till earth and heaven reverberate — fire! fire! 
He wakes to see the cinders pour on high, 
Like a volcano bursting in the sky. 
While ringing bells confirm his waking fear, 
And the hoarse trumpet thunders in his ear. 
No time has he for parley or delay. 
His hat — his ready coat — away, away! 
Springs from the threshold of his quiet home, 
Mounts o'er the ladder to the blazing dome, 
Where soon he stands upon the dizzy hight, 
And wields the torrent with a giant's might; 
Or works the engine in the icy street. 
Amidst the rushing storm, the driving sleet. 
Till the sharp frost unnerves his willing hands, 
Or piercing winds have frozen him where he stands. 

A cry within those fiery walls is heard ! 
What aid, alas, can human strength afibrd? 
Flames are devouring each devoted room, 
Fierce as the living Hindoo's burning tomb; 



THE FIREMAN. 107 

A suffocating darkness loads the air; 
The ceihng glows, and crackling flames the stair. 
No time for thought ! Amidst the fire he leaps ! 
His daring feet have passed the scorching steps. 
Blind — breathless — now he bursts the yielding door, 
Springs to his prize o'er the consuming floor, 
Then turning finds, too late, God ! too late ! 
He has but come to share the sufferer's fate. 
One hideous glare that instant shoots around, 
And the whole pile lies smouldering on the ground; 
They sink together in one common grave — 
The feeble there, and he who came to save. 



IN^YOCATION^. 



WRITTEN DURING THE LATE CONTEST BETWEEN HUNGARY 
AND AUSTRIA. 



Spirit of truth, of love, and light ! 

Thou that hast ever faithful been 
To cheer the long and stormy night 

Of hope and God-abandon'd men ; 
Pilgrim, whose worn and bleeding feet 

Have sought each joy-deserted place 
Of earth, to shed thy visions sweet 

Before our chain'd and burden'd race. 

Scorner of dungeon, whip, and rack, 

Thou only angel that remain'd 
When weeping Mercy turned her back 

Upon a world that crime had stained ! 
Thou tyrant-tamer, born in heaven, 

To be the polar star of man ; 
Though moral earthquake, that hast riven 

And trampled every bar and ban. 



INVOCATION. 109 

There 's not a vale in all the world. 



■^j 



However dark, but thou hast trod ; 
There 's not a hill but where has curl'd 

Thy altar-fires, as to a God ! 
O'er forest field, or ocean wave, 

Thy deathless peans have been heard ; 
The lion roars them in his cave, 

They 're shouted by the desert-bird. 

Thou soul of all that's good and grand, 

Thou essence of the great sublime. 
Thou star of hope, thou beacon brand 

That lights the onward march of time. 
Liberty! let tyrants start 

And tremble at thy dread appeal, 
Thou music of the patriot's heart 

Midst rending fire and bristling steel ! 

The nations that so long have borne 

A monarch's goading, galling sway, 
Now in thy dreadful name have sworn 

To dash their purple gyves away. 
Before thee wanes full many a crown. 

With all the wealth and gems they bore; 
And thrones are daily crumbling down, 

Whose splendor awed the world before. 



110 INA^OCATION. 

Once more thy glorious arm appears — 

may it never shrink or yield 
Till earth is free from servile tears, 

Or forms one mighty battle-field! 
Awake thy trump, that erst was blown 

O'er Hellas' Isle — by Adria's shore — 
That piled the dead at Marathon, 

And dyed the ^gean sea with gore. 

Eouse up the tiger — take all love 

And pity from the human breast ; 
And for the peaceful brooding dove 

Restore Medusa's Gorgon crest; 
Let' carnage, and the earthquake's power, 

Disease and famine, stalk abroad, 
Till tyranny itself shall cower 

Beneath the awful scourge of God. 

Roll on, till through the sulphur cloud 

Bursts the consuming cities ' glare ; 
When dungeons to the earth are bow'd, 

And falling castles stun the air ; 
Roll on, till each accursed flag 

Dishonest power has e'er unfurl'd 
Shall bleach upon some desert crag. 

The scoff and jeering of the world. 



INVOCATION. Ill 

Roll, roll the drum, and draw the sword; 

Let battle's deep-mouth'd thunder play, 
Till Paynim serf and Northern horde 

Are scatter'd in the fiery fray; 
Till charging through the lurid storm 

Another patriot Tell shall rise; 
Or martyred Kosciusco's form 

Shall flame approval from the skies. 



ON THE DEATH OF GEJ^. WOETH. 



! LET the solemn minute-gun 

Arouse the morning ray, 
And only with the setting sun 

In echoes die away ! 
let our banner from the skies 

Like autumn glories fall, 
To shed its ever-cheering dyes 

Around the sable pall ! 

The muffled drum, the wailing fife, 

Ah ! let them murmur low 
O'er him, who was their breath of life, 

The solemn notes of woe ! 
Their language can alone impart 

The sorrow of the brave. 
When the idol of the soldier's heart 

Is foUow'd to the grave. 



ON THE DEATH OF GEN. WORTH. 113 

At Chippewa, at Lundy's Lane, 

At Polacaba's field, 
Around him fell the crimson rain — 

The battle thunder peal'd ; 
But proudly did the soldier gaze 

Upon his daring form. 
When charging thro' the cannon's blaze, 

Amidst the sulphur storm. 

Upon the Hights of Monterey 

Again his flag unroll'd. 
And when the grape-shot rent away ' 

Its latest starry fold, 
His plumed cap above his head 

He waved upon the air. 
And cheer'd the gallant troops he led 

To glorious victory there ! 

But ah, the direful seal is broke ! 

In darkness walks abroad 
The pestilence whose silent stroke 

Is as the doom of God ; 
And the hero 'neath its fell decree 

In death is sleeping now. 

With the laurel wreath of victory 

Still green upon his brow. 
10 



Il4 ON THE DEATH OF GEN. WORTH. 

His monument shall be the roar 

By old Niagara made ; 
The waves on lonely Tampa's shore ; 

The silent everglade ; 
The tops of Orizaba white 

With everlasting snow; 
Sierra Madre's lonely hight ; 

The towers of Mexico. 

Fair eyes shall weep his early doom ; 

Fair hands shall often bring 
And offer at his sacred tomb 

The early flowers of spring ; 
And with the ranks 'twas his to lead 

Shall ever hve his name, 
While History treasures up a deed 

That 's worth eternal fame ! 



ON THE DEATH OF GEN. TAYLOR. 



H Oh ! can it be that thou art gone, 

Whom death so often spared 
Where hostile banners o'er thee shone 
And crashing thunder glared ? 
I Where southern skies at noon were black 

H« And the earth beneath was red, 

"** And cannon shook thy fearful track 

Amidst the ghastly dead ? 

The trampling where battalions form, 

The cannons' opening roar, 
The gathering of the battle storm. 

Shall rouse thee never more ; 
Yet ever when our stars shall flame 

Upon the front of war, 
A spell of hope and love, thy name 

Shall be remember'd there. 



116 ON THE DEATH OF GEN. TAYLOR. 

As sets the radiant orb of even 

With summer's hues o'ercast, 
A.S fell the Pleiad star from heaven, 

Still beaming to the last, 
So thou without a single stain 

From earth hath passed away, 
Beneath thy virtue's cloudless train, 

Thy glory's solar ray ! 

But who shall soften Freedom's woe 

Or. bid her tears depart, 
When in the shroud lies still and low 

The idol of her heart ? 
When drooping in her stateliest hall, 

Where thou hast fallen asleep. 
She puts aside the sable pall 

O'er thy cold brow to weep ? 

Farewell ! the glory thou hast won 

Shall never pass away. 
While glitter in the rising sun 

The towers of Monterey ; 
Till darkness and eternal night 

In cold oblivion frown 
Where Buena Vista's mountain hight 

In dust has crumbled down. 



ON THE DEATH OF GEN. TAYLOR. 117 

Farewell! farewell, beloved chief, 

Whose triumphs we have shared ! 
Oh ! may it soothe a nation's grief 

To know thou wast prepared : * 

That, true to all thy former years, 

Thy pure unsullied mind 
Knew no regret but for the tears 

Of those thou 'st left behind. 



TO WASHINGTO]^. 



ON VIEWING HIS PORTRAIT OVER THE PROSCENIUM OF THE 
NATIONAL THEATER, CINCINNATI. 

Father ! when from this mimic scene 
My eyes are turn'd to gaze on thee, 

I fancy accents, calm, serene, 
Proclaiming, " Be ye ever free !" 

Like the still voice the prophet heard 
Within the whirlwind's angry roar ; 

So here thy lips, without a word, 
Thunder of freedom evermore. 

As o'er full many a closing eye. 

The patriarch rear'd the healing sign ; 

So has the artist rear'd on high 
That placid godhke brow of thine : 



TO WASHINGTON. 119 

Where those who doubt of Freedom's reign, 
And dream of bonds and felon sway 

May kindle up their hopes again 
Beneath thine eye's immortal ray : 

Nor here alone. That face divine, 

'Tis on the humblest cabin wall; 
It floats above the foaming brine ; 

'Tis blazon'd in the Capitol. 

Tis mingled with the glorious dyes 

That form'd the standard of our sires ; 

And with that fragment of the skies 
Shall stream aloft till time expires. 

The first that to our eye displays 

In infancy the power of art, 
The last on which we wish to gaze 

When hope and vision's self depart. 

"^ Art thou not from the heaven above, 
O'er us, thy children, gazing down. 
As here we see thy face of love. 

Without a cloud — without a frown? 



120 TO WASHINGTON. 



Shade of the mightiest and the best, 
Thou model and thou god of men ! 

Say, can the race thy presence bless'd — 
Oh, can they e'er be slaves again ? 



No, Father ! no ! Thy name shall shield 
On mountain pass, or ocean wave. 

On smoking wreck, or gory field, 
That freedom which thy valor gave. 



STANZAS: 



EESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO MRS. PENDLETON OF WASHINGTON CITY, ON 
HEARING HER SING THE NATIONAL SONG, " E PLURIBUS UNUM." 



SWEETER than the ^oHan string 

Unto the drowsy ear of night, 
Or dulcet strains the zephyrs sing 

To listening skies of starry light, 
Is the melodious blessing felt. 

The lingering sense of joy divine. 
To hear the soul of music melt 

Upon those seraph lips of thine. 

Harmonious as the light guitar. 
The accents of the silver lute, 

Heard o'er the tranquil waves afar, 
When every other sound is mute ; 

Yet glorious as the bugle notes, 

The trumpet's peal, the wild hurrah, 

Where thy own starry banner floats 

Amidst the lurid clouds of war. 
11 



122 STANZAS. 

would thy country all could see, 

As I 've beheld thee proudly stand, 
Thou favor'd child of liberty, 

Fair minstrel of my native land ! 
Would that where'er that flag unrolls 

Its sparkling halo o'er the free, 
Thy voice could reach their million souls 

With its entrancing melody ! 

blessings on thy gentle head, 

Thou daughter of a patriot sire ! 
Long may thy glorious fingers shed 

O'er Freedom's harp their kindhng fire ! 
Long may thy notes of Freedom swell, 

Thou Priestess of her holy shrine. 
And her proud fame thou lov'st so well 

Licrease in lustre, joined with thine ! 

Like flowers that on volcanoes grow. 

Where burning lava glows around. 
Thy name, when war's red torrents flow, 

Shall mingle with the trumpet's sound. 
As long as each eternal word 

Inscribed upon our banner bright, 
O'er every plain of earth is heard. 

And echoes from each mountain hight. 



STANZAS. 123 

For me, although that sacred sign 

Has ever had the warmest vow 
That e'er has bound this heart of mine, 

'Tis more than doubly precious now : 
I ne'er its rainbow hues shall see, 

Or mark its many stars arise, 
But pure and thrilling thoughts of thee 

Shall mingle with its gorgeous dyes. 



WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY, 

MASONIC. 



Bring forth our victorious banner to-day ! 

Let its hues in the clouds be unfurl'd, 
To garland the sky in their starry array, 

Till they brighten all over the world. 
Let the hights that are earliest crown'd by the blaze 

That is pour'd from the urns of the morn 
Re-echo the cannon that thunder with praise 

At the hour our hero was born. 

Tho' he waved not a sceptre, he wore not a crown, 

Tho' he sought not the glare of a throne, 
Yet the limits of glory and fadeless renown 

Are fill'd with his grandeur alone ! 
As the twinkling stars o'er the heavens array'd 

When approach'd by the sun's golden flame. 
So the mightiest heroes of history fade 

When approach'd by our Washington's name. 



WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY. 125 

And ye, 0, his brothers, who reverence the ties 

Of that union so kindred and dear, 
Whose links were let down from the throne in the 
skies 

To bind us in harmony here; 
This day, while you join in the banquet and song, 

Let remembrance rekindle your love 
For him who is join'd with that radiant throng 

In the Lodge that assembles above. 



TO A PORTRAIT OF GEJST. TAYLOR. 



I've seen tliat face of matchless worth 

Which thou hast traced so truly there, 
Where cannon shook the crimson earth, 

And lit the battle-blacken'd air ; 
I Ve seen that high and thoughtful brow 

Wreath'd by a thousand muskets' flame, 
As calm as ye behold it now 

Within the artist's golden frame. 

That courteous lip was scarce less bland, 

Tho' energy compress'd its shape, 
The moment when it gave command 

To Captain Bragg, for " Grape, more grape!" 
That eye — but no, 'twas brighter then — 

'Twas beaming with a prophet's glow. 
That cheer'd our few and weary men 

To battle with a countless foe. 



TO A PORTRAIT OF GEN. TAYLOR. 127 

Yes, artist, I will thank thee here, 

And bless thee for thy wondrous power ; 
To me that face is doubly dear 

When seen in its most tranquil hour. 
Look on that faithful picture, ye 

Whom party spirit cannot blind. 
And say if aught but truth can be 

With lineaments like those combined. 

Look on it well ; ye cannot trace 

One doubtful or suspicious line ; 
It is no smooth and cringing face 

Where self and party-scheming shine. 
No ! open as fresh breaking day. 

Free as our Union banner beams, 
When o'er the battle's red array 

Death flashes from its starry gleams ! 

Yet calm and thoughtful as the sage; 

Tho' years their channels there have worn, 
Tis still a clear and cloudless page, 

Recording suffering nobly borne. 
Such was the face of him whose shade 

We now may only look upon, 
Whose hand this starry Union made — 

Our earthly father, Washington. 



128 TO A PORTEAIT OF GEN. TAYLOR. 

Old Eagle ! long thy breast hath flown 

To guard the banner of thy land ; 
And victory yet was never known 

To leave that flag while in thy hand. 
And there is no spot or stain 

Upon thy pure^ unsullied fame ! 
Thy veriest foe would seek in vain 

A speck upon thy glorious name ! 

Artless, ingenuous as a child, - 

Thou 'st sought to serve thy country well. 
How God upon thy eflbrts smiled, 

Thy country's history joys to tell. 
One triumph more remains for thee — 

It is to make all discord cease, 
Bid party from our country flee, 

And over faction "conquer peace." 



GOD A^D LIBEETT. 



In the beginning — ere the dawn of time, 

Ere chaos woke from an eternal sleep, 
When all was shoreless, silent, and sublime. 

And God alone was on the mighty deep. 
No planet burn'd upon the sable sky. 

No boreal flame or comet's daring flight. 
The earth was void and formless to the eye, 

A dreamless nothing in the womb of night; 
God said, " Let there be light, and there was light." 

Then order rose — then time began his march — 

Then earth was roll'd from out Jehovah's hand, 
Flung to its circle in the mighty arch. 

To fill the purpose of his high command. 
The sun arose and gave the morning birth, 

The moon came forth upon the azure even^ 
Bright Orion shouted o'er the infant earth. 

The angels lean'd them from the courts of 
heaven. 
And with their choral hymns the starry sky was 
riven. 



130 GOD AND LIBERTY. 

On sped the earth upon its endless round, 

O'er the blue infinite of starry spheres, 
And yet "there was no man to till the ground," 

Or trace the awful history of years ; 
But God created from the senseless dust 

An image from his own perfection stole, 
Pure, bright and holy, beautiful and just. 

And man from God's own breath "became a 
living soul," 
Sovereign of earth, and free beyond control. 

And woman too, the dearest and the last. 

Whose peerless beauty through creation shone. 
Till angels saw their radiant forms surpass'd. 

And bought her love with many a starry throne. 
What more could God himself on man bestow, 

Than this bright earth with all its wealth of 
flowers, 
The sunny hills, the ocean's emerald flow. 

The balmy zephyrs and the gentle showers, 
And woman's glorious love to crown the rosy hours. 

On sped the earth — and Time began to write. 
Ah ! what a record on his page appears ! 

Ambition's curse — of pride the baleful blight; 
The withering stain of sin j the agony of tears; 



GOD AND LIBERTY. 131 

The loss of Eden ; and the dread decree 

O'er which too late the homeless wanderers 
mourn, 
"Henceforth to labor thou a slave shalt be — 
Thy toil alone thy very life shalt earn — 
From dust thou wast and shalt to dust return." 

On sped the earth, and dark the pages grew 

That swell'd the volume of recording Time, 
Till God, incensed, his latest smiles withdrew 

From earth's black damning catalogue of crime ; 
Then burst the seals that bound the mighty waves, 

And o'er that scene of infamy they roll ; 
The chainless sea has form'd their shroudless graves, 

In its grim majesty without or bound or goal, 
Deep o'er the mountain tops it foams from pole to pole. 

One bark alone was on that mighty sea — 

One little fragment of man's lost estate ; 
One heart alone, oh God ! that worshipped thee, 

And trusted to thy word his priceless freight. 
Again the earth arose from out the deep. 

And gleamed the bow of promise on the air, 
And man has vow'd thy sacred laws to keep. 

To shun the curse of sin's most hideous lair. 
To love thy holy name and reverence thee in prayer. 



132 GOD AND LIBERTY. 

Then teem'd the earth with every blossom fair, 

And tree, and shrub, and fields of golden grain, 
Beasts in the groves, and birds upon the air. 

And finny tribes within the heaving main. 
The spring returned, the summer smiled around. 

And autumn swelled with every gift divine ; 
With fruit low bending to the russet ground. 

And sheaves that o'er the harvest fields recline, 
And arbors bending low beneath the purple vine. 

On sped the world — but it were long to tell, 

How fared the race that God did thus restore. 
How forth the empires of his seed did swell. 

Countless as sands upon the ocean shore ; 
How Asia, Afric, Europe, all were stored 

With lord and peasant, conqueror and slave ; 
How blood, like water, o'er the world was pour'd, 

How shrank the coward, and how fell the brave, 
Ere sacred truth was lost or freedom found a grave. 

The last asylum Heaven had kept in store. 
Another world, Columbia, then was given ; 

Beligion sought a refuge on its shore. 
And hail'd its hills, the legacy of heaven ; 

And many barks, with speeding pinions spread. 
Again were on the dark and troubled sea — 



GOD AND LIBEETY. 133 

Stout hearts they bore who from oppression fled, 
And to a mortal throne had scorned to bend the 
knee, 
But sought to rear a shrine to God and Liberty. 

And God was with them on full many a jfield, 

As tyrants will remember evermore, 
When kingly power was taught at length to yield 

On many a hill that ran with human gore, 
Beneath that flag our fathers flung on high, 

Fore'er to wave above the sea and land, 
Emblem of union, fragment of the sky, 

God keep thee "in the hollow of his hand," 
Till millions yet unborn beneath thy folds shall 
stand. 



YOICES FEOM THE CEOWD: 

A EEMONSTRANCE WITH THE AMEEICANS. 
BY CHARLES MACKAY, Esq.* 

" Brother, why this rage and scorn ; 

Why these gibes and tauntings flung ? 
Were your sires not EngKsh born — 

Speak you not with Enghsh tongue ? 
Think ye not with EngKsh thought ; 

Ts not Shakspeare yours and ours 5 
And the same reHgion taught 

In our cities and our bowers ? 
Brothers, turn your thoughts to peace, 
And let all this discord cease. 



* This poem of Mr. Mackay, it will be recollected, appeared in this country 
when a very different state of feeling pervaded the public mind towards our 
mother country than that which we contemplate with so much pleasure now ; 
it came to us during the agitation of the Oregon question, at a time when 
the bullying and overbearing tone of the English press left us no other 
prospect of settling this question but by the last resort of nations, and the 
threat of Mr. Mackay to 

"teach us such a lesson 

As should sicken us of war," 

must be my apology for the manner in which I felt disposed to answer his 
beautiful and philanthropic " Remonstrance with the Americans." 



VOICES FKOM THE CROWD, 135 

" "Why should war affright the earth ? 

Were the lands you covet thus, 
Richer, larger, better worth, 

Wherefore should you fight with us ? 
'T would be scandal to our kind. 

An opprobrium to our creed, 
If through rage and malice blind, 

One American should bleed ; 
Or if England's meanest son 
Lost his life for Oregon. 

"If ye so desire the land, 

'Bide your hour — 't will not be long, 
Clear it — plant it — send a band. 

Peaceful, enterprising, strong, 
Who will people all the clime. 

Spreading commerce as they go. 
Free to answer in their time. 

When ye ask them, " Yes, or no ! " 
But beware, for freedom's sake, 
Oh, beware the part you take. 

" It would be a dastard shame — 

Shame more deep than words can breathe, 
If for this we lit the flame. 

Or drew the weapon from its sheath ; 



136 VOICES FKOM THE CROWD. 

Deeper guilt, more heinous sin. 
If the foohsh quarrel grew ; 

And the nations, pressing in, 

Eanged themselves for us or you ; 

And the earth was fiU'd with hate, 

Because you were insatiate. 

"Freedom's prophet England taught. 

And you learn'd what she instill'd ; 
You the inspiration caught ; 

Be your prophecy fulfill'd. 
Show the world, that doubts the fact, 

That of freedom is not born 
Rabble passion, frenzied act, 

Utter recklessness and scorn : 
If so once, they need not be — 
Wisdom dwells with liberty. 

Let the bloody flag be furl'd, 

Nobler is the task we 're set ; 
And 'tis treason to the world 

To neglect it, or forget 
Science woos us to her arms ; 

New discovery waits our time ; 
Young invention spreads her charms ; 

Knowledge beckons us to climb. 



VOICES PROM THE CROWD. 137 

Brothers, join us in the van, 
And we'll lead the march of man. 

" But if madly bent on strife, 

And all reason speaks in vain, 
Be the guilt of every life 

In the unnatural contest slain 
On your heads, and ere 'tis o'er 

Such a lesson you shall learn 
As shall sicken you of war. 

Brothers, for your hand we yearn ! 
Let us give our thoughts to peace ; 
Let this foolish discord cease." 



12 



AiNT ANSWER 

TO "A EEMONSTRANCE WITH THE AMERICANS." 

YES ! ye are our brothers ! 

While we love you for the tie, 
Shall we -yield ye what to others 

We sternly would deny? 
yes ! we know your Saxon Avords — - 

Your Norman blood is ours : 
How often on your kindred swords 

That blood has fell in showers ! 

yes ! we think with English thought 

When English thought is free ; 
But by a king we ne'er were taught 

How we shall bend the knee. 
Our fathers left their native shore 

To worship God alone, 
But blindly do ye still adore 

A sceptre and a throne. 



ANSWER TO A REMONSTRANCE. 139 

We do not seek with ye a strife — 

No bond of peace would break — 
But careless do we hold each life 

When freedom is at stake; 
And every foot or inch of earth 

Our fathers won of yore, 
We deem of greater, dearer worth, 

Than seas of human gore. 

Ye talk of freedom, while ye bow 

Around a human shrine — 
Like serfs, acknowledging e'en now 

Your monarch's "right divine !" 
And freely spend your dearest blood 

In conquering each domain, 
Where ye may send your kingly brood 

O'er bleeding realms to reign. 

Ye prate of peace, while o'er the world 

Your purple flag is spread," 
And dripping now with gore unfurl'd 

O'er India's martyr'd dead ! 
On every sea — on every shore, 

Your conquests still go on ; 
The feeble feel your grasping power 

From rise to set of sun ! 



140 ANSWEK TO A RExAIONSTRANCE. 

Still with your proud ambitious sway 

We do not interfere ; 
But by that God to whom we pray 

Ye must not meddle here ! 
'Tis holy ground this land of ours, 

And kingly power would feel 
A spell within its humblest bowers 

More dread than ranks of steel. 

A charm within the very air 

Would warn each royal thing 
The poorest man he meets with here 

Is "every inch a king;" 
As free of thought, as unrestrain'd 

By any human hand, 
As the veriest despot that hath reign'd 

O'er Europe's crimson land ! 

Ye speak of "lessons !" Have ye then 

So soon forgot the scenes 
Of Saratoga's gory fen — 

Lake Erie — New Orleans? 
We know that ye have giant power, 

We know that ye are brave. 
That ye are terrible on the shore, 

And glorious on the wave; 



ANSWER TO A REMONSTRANCE. 141 

But what hath this to do with men 

Who battle for their own — 
Who fight for e'en their poorest glen, 

As ye fight for a throne ? 
Who do not come a hireling band 

To obey a monarch's nod, 
But strike for their own native land, 

Their freedom, and their God ? 

Away ! ye have our firm reply : 

Touch not the humblest hill 
That smiles beneath our native sky ; 

Stain not the feeblest rill ! 
For we hold ye, as ye '11 find it there 

On the scroll of our fathers penn'd, 
Ye 're still our enemies in war — 

In peace ye are our friend. 



THE LAND OF THE WEST 



Where waves the forest for ever green, 

And flowers in bloom are always seen ; 

Where farther far than the eye can behold, 

An ocean of crimson, purple, and gold. 

Like a carpet from paradise just unroll'd. 

The prairie appears with bower and grove, 

Through which the elk and bujBfalo rove ; 

And the graceful deer bounds lightly o'er. 

Or swims the bright waters from shore to shore ; 

Where the sun never scorches, the frost never chills ; 

Where Flora presides o'er the meadows and hills, 

Unblasted by winter, unshrouded by snow, 

The wild rose, and lily, and hare-bell grow; 

Where the fragrant grass, when waved by the breeze, 

Like the sun-lit billows of eastern seas, 

All radiantly sparkles with every dye 

That glows on the earth or blends in the sky ; 



THE LAND OF THE WEST. 143 

Where the oak is oppressed by the towering vine, 
And the earth is illumed by the glittering mine; 
Where fountains of pearl have eternally gush'd, 
And the voice of the mocking-bird never is hush'd. 
Where lakes, like the ocean, in grandeur are spread, 

And the rainbow is flashing its emeralds on high. 
O'er the cataracts, whose thunders might waken the 
dead, 

And forests that steep their dark boughs in the sky. 
'Tis the Land of the West — 'tis the beautiful clime 
Where Freedom hath kindled her altars sublime ; 
Where the banner of stars in its majesty swells. 
And where Liberty — glorious Liberty — dwells. 

This land still blooms in the sun's bright ray, 
But the race who most lov'd it, 0, where are they? 
Gone from the prairie, the forest, the stream, 
Like the bodiless phantoms that people a dream! 
Like the sparkles that round the cataract play ; 
Like the mists of the mountain, they've passed away. 
Their humble homes to the flames were given, 
The plough their very hearths hath riven, 
Where stood their temples, their altars, their graves, * 
The town is rear'd, or the harvest waves. 

And did they yield without a strife 

Of blood for blood, of life for life ? 



144 THE LAND OF THE WEST. 

Oh ! were there none who dared to stand 
Or fall to guard this glorious land ? 
Or did their breasts a rampart swell 
To shield the homes they loved so well ? 
Unwavering still, tho' often broke 
By the pale warrior's lightning stroke, 
And tho' their veins had dyed the field, 
Too weak to strive, too proud to yield. 
With breast to breast, and steel to steel, 
Still feebly through the conflict reel. 
Still grapple with their vengeful foe, 
And scorn to shun his latest blow ! 

Oh, yes, they did what man may do, 

Where carnage rolls and steel is riven, 
To show how courage tried and true 

May struggle with the doom of Heaven ! 
Nor yielded as the craven yields 

Beneath the fell decrees of fate ; 
Nor quench'd a thousand gory fields 

Their deathless and eternal hate. 

The warrior's heart may not despair ! 

No tear may dim an Indian's eye ! 
His joy is battle's front to dare. 

To taste of deep revenge — and die ! 



THE LAND OF TPIE WEST. 145 

'Tis rapture to his parting soul, 

As dim his eagle vision grows, 
Amidst the crimson ranks to roll, 
And die amidst his dying foes. 

With helmless brows and bosoms bare 

Those fearless forest warriors came, 
And faced the sabre's awful glare, 

The cannon's crash, the musket's flame! 
Their sacred heritage to shield. 

They mingled in the carnage red. 
Till bulwarks o'er the crimson field 

Were rear'd with heaps of gory dead ! 

Unlettered, they at science spurn'd. 

And mock'd the proud tactician's arts, 
While deathless zeal and valor burn'd 

Unquenchable within their hearts. 
From Labrador's eternal snows 

To Patagonia's farthest strand. 
From where the blue Atlantic flows 

To where the Kocky Mountains stand, 
Of stream or forest, field or flood. 

There 's not a foot their conqueror owns, 

But has been colored with their blood. 

Or whiten'd with their bleaching bones ; 
13 



146 THE LAND OF THE WEST. 

And when the latest trump of God, 

Dissolving death's mysterious chain, 
Shall rend the marble and the sod. 

To give each form its soul again : 
There's not within this broad domain, 

A single rood of sea or earth, 
But dyed with many a murderer's stain, 

Will give a slaughter'd Indian birth ! 



ODE TO THE DEITY. 



Spirit of Truth ! whose temples rise 

Wherever dwells thy creature, man ! 
For ever hid from mortal eyes 

In mysteries they cannot scan 
Soul of power ! whose breath uprears 

Immeasurable space of worlds on high, 
And roUest their stupendous spheres 

In light and glory through the sky ! 

Omniscience ! who alone beholds 

An hundred years the comet swim, 
Nor reach the shore that still enfolds 

Unnumber'd suns, by distance dim ! 
Omnipresence ! thou that fiUest all 

The meteless empires of the air. 
Yet hear'st the humblest creature's call, 

Whose weakness claims thy gracious care. 



148 ODE TO THE DEITY. 

Father of light and life and form ! 

Who dwelt before the birth of time, 
When chaos, like a mighty storm, 

Starless and boundless, roll'd sublime ; 
Who spoke, and from the dark abyss 

Of nothing at thy mandate came 
Earth in her primal loveliness. 

The crystal moon, the sun's red flame. 

Mid sculptured aisles in porphyry halls 

What tho' these knees have never bow'd, 
Where crime upon thy goodness calls, 

And creeds are taught the cringing crowd ; 
Where incense pours its rich perfume 

O'er golden fount and marble shrine, 
And glittering scarf and waving plume 

Pay homage to thy name divine ; 

Have I not trod the mountain hight, 

When darkness, storm, and fire, have striven, 
And down the ebon plumes of night 

The lava of the sky was driven ? 
Have I not wander'd o'er the tide, 

Have I not knelt upon the shore, 
Of ocean, where his tameless pride 

The seamew dared not venture o'er ? 



ODE TO THE DEITY. 149 

Have T not mark'd earth's mightiest river, 

Through clouds of spray that wreak'd on high, 
Fall foaming to the depths for ever, 

As if it pour'd from out the sky? 
Beholding these and all above, 

Below, around — for all are thine — 
The emblems of thy power and love — ■ 

What need have I of holier shrine? 

Father ! when o'er the horizon's verge 

The lingering sun his glory flings 
In many a gold and opal surge, 

Bright as thine own ambrosial wings; 
When morning's silver portals rise. 

Or twilight's woof of pearl is strown 
With sparkling stars, that light the skies, 

Like diamonds scatter'd from thy throne ; 

When Iris o'er the dying storm 

Hath bent her many-colored bow. 
And spann'd within its wondrous form 

The thunder-clouds that sleep below, 
'Tis then my soul hath burn'd to soar ; 

'Tis then I've sigh'd to be with thee. 
Where earthly sorrow comes no more — 

Beyond the grave's dark mystery. 



150 ODE TO THE DEITY. 

Father ! since life is but a boon 

Which thou dost give and take away; 
And since my soul — alas, how soon ! 

To other unknown worlds must stray; 
hear my poor and humble prayer, 

Where pride and mammon ne'er intrude, 
My lamp some lone and lovely star 

In thine own temple's solitude. 



DESPAIE. 



The grave ! the grave ! how can it be, 

My soul, that thou should'st e'er forget 
How bright Hfe's sun arose for thee — 

How soon within the grave 't will set? 
On every hill, on every plain. 

There 's not a place thy foot can tread, 
Innumerous as the drops of rain, 

Where moulder not the countless dead ! 

Along the Tiber and the Nile, 

Where Tigris and the Ganges flow, 
What mighty cities rose erewhile ! 

How voiceless were they long ago ! 
And yet their mighty crowds are there. 

In field and flood, and ocean wave ; 
Around they slumber everywhere. 

The sage, the concLueror, and the slave. 



152 DESPAIR. 

O'er Tadmor rolls the desert sand ; 

O'er Sidon swells the briny deep ; 
Above them take thy lonely stand, 

And think what millions near thee sleep ! 
Palmyra, Carthage, Carnac, Rome, 

Deep buried thousand years beneath, 
Of silent, hopeless, rayless gloom. 

How endless is the sleep of death ! 

But what of these — oh, what of all 

The ancient wasted haunts of men, 
By which we trace a nation's fall. 

Or say where empire once hath been ? 
Ask ye of those who rear'd that dome. 

These pillars — with long years of toil? 
They 're mingled with the lifeless loam 

Where peasants reap the burden'd soil. 

They 're dust that 's gather'd not again, 

Where victors forth their armies led ; 
They 're sand within the foaming main, 

They 're ashes 'neath the pyramid ! 
But why these fields and cities trace 

To seek the dead ? We cannot err ; 
The earth is but a burial-place — 

The ocean but a sepulchre ! 



DESPAIK. 153 

The bright, the pure, the brave, are gone 

Where all beneath a blended sky 
With arrowy speed are hurtling onj 

We only live that we may die ! 
Then think, my soul, how soon the dream, 

The sunny dream of life will fade. 
And thou wilt be, ah, what? — no gleam 

Of knowledge yet hath e'er betrayed. 

And what hath been thy portion here? 

What shall it be in future years ? 
Where love's bright rose but decks his bier, 

And hope is quench'd in useless tears? 
Yes, death is slumber, sound, sound deep, 

Life but the fitful dream of men 
Mid tombs where thought must ever keep 

Lone vigils over what hath been. 

A wild and fearful dream is thine — 

More dread at every change of form; 
The stars thou'st worshipp'd all decline, 

And leave thee in the night and storm ! 
But ah ! a night without a morn 

Full soon shall shade these aching eyes, 
No star upon that sky shall burn, 

To light earth's dazzling mockeries. 



154 DESPAIR 

Away ! ye heart-consuming throng 

Of thoughts that rack this throbbing brow; 
I have not borne life's ills so long, 

That I should shrink beneath them now. 
What though upon time's rugged shore 

My pilgrim feet are still confined, 
No rainbow on the clouds before — 

Extinguish'd every star behind— 

I Ve known full many as dark an hour, 

Nor yielded to the fiend Desj)air, 
For mine has been affliction's dower, 

And pain has taught me how to bear. 
Away ! I reck not what shall be 

The end of all this coil at last; 
'Tis welcome, so it bring to me 

A deep oblivion of the past. 



THE MISEE. 



An old man sat by a fireless hearth, 

Though the night was cold and chill, 
And mournfully o'er the frozen earth 

The wind sobbed low and shrill ; 
His locks were gray, and his eyes were gray, 

And dim, but not with tears, 
And his skeleton form had wasted away 

With penury more than years. 

A rushlight was casting its fitful glare 

O'er the damp and dingy walls — 
Where the lizard hath made his slimy lair, 

And the venomous spider crawls ; 
But the meanest thing in this loathsome room 

Was the miser, all worn and bare — 
Where he sat like a ghost in an empty tomb, 

On his broken and only chair. 



156 THE MISER. 

He had bolted the window and barr'd the door, 

And every nook he had scann'd — 
And felt their fastenings o'er and o'er 

With his cold and skinny hand. '^ 

And yet he sat gazing intently around, 

And trembled with silent fear, 
And startled and shudder'd at every sound 

That fell on his coward ear. 

" Ha ! ha ! " laugh'd the miser, " I 'm safe at last. 

From this night so cold and drear — 
From the drenching rain and driving blast — 

With my gold and treasures here. 
I 'm cold and wet with icy rain, 

And my health is bad, 'tis true ; 
Yet, if I should light that fire again, 

It would cost me a cent or two. 

" But I '11 take a sip of that precious wine, 

It will banish my cold and fears — 
It was given long since by a friend of mine- — 

I have kept it for many years : " 
So he drew a flask from a mouldy nook. 

And drank of its ruby tide — 
And his eye grew bright with each draught he took, 

And his bosom swell'd with pride. 



THE MISER. 157 

"Let me see — let me see," said the miser, then, 
" 'Tis some sixty years, or more, 
Since the happy hour when I began 

To heap up my ghttering store ; 
And well have I sped with my anxious toil, 

As my crowded chests will show; 
I have more than would ransom a kingdom's spoil, 
Or an emperor could bestow. 

" From the orient realms I have rubies bright. 

And gold from the famed Peru ; 
I 've diamonds would shame the stars of night, 

And pearls like the morning dew. 
And more I '11 have ere the morrow's sun 

His rays from the west shall fling : 
That widow to free her prison'd son. 

Shall bring me her bridal ring." 

He turned to an old worm-eaten chest. 

And cautiously raised the lid, 
And then it shone like the clouds of the west, 

With the sun in their splendor hid; 
And gem after gem, in its precious store. 

Are raised with exulting smile, 
And counted, and re-counted o'er and o'er, 

In- many a glittering pile. 



158 THE MISER. 

Why comes the flush to his paUid brow, 

While his eyes like his diamonds shine ? 
Why writhes he thus, in torture now ? 

What was there in the wine ? 
His lonely seat he strove to regain ; 

To crawl to his nest he tried; 
But finding his efforts were all in vain, 

He clasp'd his gold, and — died ! 



LISTEN! 



Listen, and there shall be given 
Thee each bliss that life affords ; 

And the nameless joys of heaven, 
J£ thou It listen to my words. 

Listen, when the morn is breaking 
Softly o'er the flowery lea, 

From each hill and grove awaking 
Nature's cheering minstrelsy. 

Listen, when the evening shade 
Calmly gathers o'er the sky, 

And each sound doth softly fade, 
As a mother's lullaby. 



160 LISTEN. 

Listen, to the cataract pouring 

From the mountain wild and high ; 

Listen, to the tempest roaring. 

Where the lightning burns the sky. 

Listen, to the night- wind stealing ; 

Listen to the ocean's surge. 
To thy inmost soul appealing, 

Mournful as a funeral dirge. 

Listen, to the bugle screaming. 
Where the ranks of freedom are, 

And thy country's banner streaming 
Proudly o'er the shock of war. 

Listen, when the strife is ended, 
And the invader, trampled low, 

Sues to thee to be defended — 
Listen, though he be thy foe. 

Listen, when pale lips address thee 
From a lone deserted bed ; 

When a feeble voice shall press thee ; 
When the famish'd ask for bread. 



LISTEN. 161 

Listen, wlien a sigh shall reach thee 
From the prison's lonesome cell, 

And its inmate doth beseech thee 
For the light beloved so well. 

Listen, when above the bier. 

Comes a shriek that makes thee start, 
Falling on death's frozen ear 

From a widow' d broken heart. 

Listen, when the orphan's cry 

Wails o'er those for ever gone, 
And his swollen tearful eye 

Brings a moisture to thine own. 

Listen, to the exile's story ; 

Listen, to the stranger's care ; 
Thou may'st meet a child of glory — 

Serve an angel unaware. 

Listen, when the form thou'st loved 

By the sable pall is hid, 
And the clods again removed. 

Fall upon the coffin lid. 

14 



162 LISTEN. 

Listen, when the warning bell 
Lingers on the Sabbath air ; 

Listen, when the organ's swell 
Calls thy sinful lips to prayer. 

Listen, child of want and grief. 
Who the paths of guilt have trod ? 

Would'st thou find a sweet relief, 
Listen to the word of God. 



TO MY SOUL. 



Vain, vain, my struggling spirit, 

Are thy anxious pinions spread, 
Until this form thou dost inherit 

Coldly moulders with the dead ! 
Then, with radiant things in heaven 

Shall thy blessedness begin. 
If here thy errors are forgiven — 

If here thou bear'st no stain of sin. 

Many loved ones have departed. 

Many cherish'd hopes have flown 
Since from being's goal we started 

On life's ocean, dark and lone. 
Beneath the clouds that gather o'er us, 

Onward drives life's shatter'd bark ; 
No friendly beacon burns before us, 

All around is drear and dark. 



1G4 TO MY SOUL. 

On the shore to which we 're speeding 

Stands the cypress and the urn, 
While to those tliat are receding 

We never — never can return. 
Ah ! tnj soul, how dread thy portion, 

Ah ! how endless thy despair, 
Shouldst thou cross this dreary ocean, 

And find no blessed haven there ! 

Dim and cold and voiceless ever 

Is the realm to which we go, 
Where full many a Stj^gian river 

Through the endless shadows flow. 
But my soul, though sad and dreary 

Lies that cold and sable land. 
There alone may rest the weary — 

There the gates of promise stand. 

There, when life's brief voyage is over, 

When this narrow sea is crossed. 
When the elements recover 

All of thee that may be lost, 
There, those dear ones gone before thee 

Through those portals, thou shait meet, 
Softer skies shall hover o'er thee. 

Brighter flowers shall bless thy feet. 



TO MY SOUL. 165 

There, those starry realms of pleasure 

Thou hast seen so dnnly here, 
All of thought's unfading treasure, 

In their fullness shall appear ; 
All the secrets of the ocean. 

All the mysteries on high. 
Light, and magnitude, and motion, 

All the colors of the sky, 

Scenes of peace, and love, and beauty. 

Things for which thou here dost pine, 
If thou 'rt faithful to thy duty. 

All thou wishest shall be thine. 
The darkest night will have a morrow, 

Pleasure must succeed to pain. 
And it will soothe our parting sorrow 

To know that we shall meet again. 



ODE TO THE GRAISTD PEAIEIE, 



I HAVE stray'd on the ocean's shore alone, 
When the sun was famt and low ; 

I have sat on Jura's awful throne, 
And gazed o'er the world below. 

In the voiceless halls of other lands, 
My pilgrim feet I 've placed ; 

And with our own red, tameless bands, 
Our pathless forests traced. 

And oft, amidst a living space, 

A stranger I have stood, 
And sighed for one familiar face, 

In a countless multitude. 



ODE TO THE GRAND PRAIRIE. 167 

I 've watch'd Niagara's crystal foam 

At the solemn hush of even ; 
And gazed upon sepulchred Rome, 

When the stars were high in heaven. 

But oh, until this lonely hour, 

Whate'er my spirit's mood, 
I ne'er have felt such saddening power — ■ 

Such boundless solitude. 

There's life in ocean's heaving breast, 

And music in the roar 
Where waves receding leave their crest 

Of foam upon the shore. 

There 's language in the forest leaves, 

And many a gilded plume, 
. And sprightly form of life, relieves 

Its silence and its gloom. 

And when the thoughtful pilgrim strays 

Through mouldering piles of art. 
The shadowy forms of other days 

Will throng around his heart. 



168 ODE TO THE GKAND PKAIRIE. 

There 's music in the desert wide, 
And in the mountain air; 

There 's rapture in the rushing tide ; 
For God himself is there. 

But thou art ever calm and bright, 
Though tempests o'er thee rave : 

A broad expanse of bloom and light - 
A sea without a wave. 



ELEGY. 



WRITTEN IN A CITY CHURCH-YARD, 
AFTER THE MANNER OF GRAY. 



The clock's deep chime proclaims the matin hour, 
The sun is up and dawning gloriously, 

The weary watch resigns his jealous power, 
And leaves the streets to freedom and to me. 

Now ope the crowded shops upon the sight, 
And all the air a business murmur holds ; 

Save where some shutter bars the vulgar light, 
Or silken draperies shed their drowsy folds. 

Save that from yonder iron-grated walls 

Some hapless wight does to the crowd complain 

Of cold, that through his naked prison crawls, 
And turns to ice his solitary chain. 

15 



170 ELEGY. 

Beneath' these costly slabs, this great parade 
Of monumental marble — heap on heap — 

Each in his silver-mounted coffin laid, 
The spruce patricians of the city sleep. 

The rattling car or cart of market-morn, 

The busy crowds that o'er the pavement tread; 

The steamboat's thunder, or the shrill coach horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their costly bed; 

For them no more shall cents to dollars turn, 
Where busy brokers ply their eager care; 

No bankers run to welcome their return, 

Or climb their desks the envied cash to share. 

Oft did the honest to their swindling yield. 

Their grinding oft the widow's heart has broke; 

How harden'd were their miser hearts, how steel'd, 
And yet what honey 'd words they ever spoke. 

Let not the famish'd mock their greedy toil. 

Their sordid schemes, their cent, per cent, deride, 

Nor virtue listen with a pitying smile. 
To gilded epitaphs o'er rotting pride. 



ELEGY. 171 

The boast of honestj ; religion's sacred dower ; 

And all that virtue — all that truth e'er gave — 
Are only beacons in death's stormy hour, 

That hail our spirits from beyond the grave. 

And you, ye needy, think not theirs the fault. 
If sculptured trophies o'er their tombs arise ; 

If they could know the cost of every vault, 
It were to them the worm that never dies. 

Could souls departed visit here below, 

And settle up their business ere they went, 

Those marbles had been sold at auction long ago, 
Or duly scribbled on, "to rent," "to rent." 

Perhaps in this embellish'd spot is laid, 

Some heart once taintless of this base desire — 

Hands that the blacking-brushes might have sway'd 
Or exquisitely stirr'd the iblazing fire ; 

But speculation's ever dazzling page 

Unroll'd such prospect of a harvest here, 

As did their avaricious souls ena:a2;e. 

And drew their talents from their wonted sphere. 



172 . ELEGT- 



/ 



Far from the banks and brokers' sliaving strife, 
Their humble avarice never learn'd to stray j 

Content to spend a most ignoble life, 
In saving something for " a rainy day." 

Yet e'en their worthless ashes to protect. 
Some marble monument erected nigh, 

With flaunting lines of fulsome flattery deck'd, 
Implores the passer to believe a lie. 

The names of captain — colonel — general — here, 
O'er all the varied monuments are rife ; 

And many a tomb these sounding titles bear, 
Whose owner never touch'd a trigger in his life. 

And who, that on the follies of the day 

His anxious thoughts a moment e'er confined, 

But knows this foolish passion for display 
Is of the strongest feelings of mankind ? 

On some fond name the wealthy dunce relies ; 

Some title does his arrogance require ; 
And this the sculptor on his tomb supplies, 

From judge or general, even down to squire. 



ELEGY. 173 

How many stain'd with every vice obscene 
The whited sepulchre of fashion bears ; 

How many wretches make their wealth a screen 
To keep the hands of justice from their ears. 

Some nameless Kothschild, that with manly breast 
The miser cravings of his soul withstood ; 

Some poor and honest Swartwout, here may rest, 
Some Biddle — guiltless of the orphan's food. 

The applause of Jews and brokers to command, 
The checks of truth and conscience to despise. 

To league with ruffians 'gainst their native land. 
Yet dare encounter with a freeman's eyes — 

Their lot forbade, and let us truly thank 

That God, who all their farther fraud confined, 

Forbade to wade through plunder to a bank, 
<^r ope a broker's office on mankind. 

The struggling pangs of blackest guilt to hide, 
To quench the whisperings of conscious blame ; 

Beneath the hollow show of pomp and pride. 
To seek a shield from public scorn and shame. 



174 ELEGY. 

For me — who thus have artlessly unroll 'd 

The worthj the virtues, of the mouldering great; 

If e'er the story of my hfe be told — 

And may just Heaven at least avert that fate — 

Haply for me — some orphan shall declare : 
Oft have we seen him on the bitterest day; 

Facing the storm, without a thought of care, 
To bring us food and wipe our tears away. 

There, at the corner of yon busy street. 
He oft did stand. His kind fraternal eye 

Beaming with interest, we did often meet, 
Upon the faces that were passing by. 

Oft by that bed, so all neglected now. 

Watching yon sufferer he would nightly stand; 

Now soothe the fever of his aching brow — 
Now whisper comfort in a brighter land. 

One morn we missed him. At the accustomed time 
He came not to the afflicted and the poor. 

Another came. And yet the clock's deep chime 
Marked not his footsteps at our humble door. 



ELEGY. , 175 

The next — with mourning coach and hackney chaise 
We bore him slowly to his kindred dead : 

Approach and read, for thou canst read his praise, 
Engraved upon yon humble pyramid. 

EPITAPH. 

Here rests within this cold and silent vault, 
A youth to avarice and to pride unknown j 

He was not perfect — but his greatest fault 
Was such as virtue need not blush to own: 

This was his hatred — for the heartless throng 
Of fashion's minions, and of mammon's tools ; 

He knew them well, for he had watch'd them long, 
And found them soulless hypocrites and fools. 

Time, fortune, title, fame, distinction, breath, 
The form of beauty but a dream — a clod — 

Fore-doomed to crumble at the touch of death, 
This much he knew — the rest remains with God. 



CARRY MB BACK!* 



Look here, ye heartless, lawless bands, 

Who, in the name ye desecrate. 
Would lay your red incendiary hands 

Upon a peaceful "sister State;" 
Ye who would rend the sacred ties 

That have secured our highest trust, 
Would tear our banner from the skies — 

Would trail its glories in the dust. 

Who, in the name of God and truth, 

Would scatter coals throughout the land; 
Would place (in freedom's name forsooth) 

A knife in each assassin's hand; 
Who, while the lowly Savior's name 

Does on your Judas accents swell. 
Have thoughts within your hearts of shame 

Unworthy of the fiends of hell. 

* An aged slave, who had been recently liberated in Virginia, and sent 
to Indiana, passed np the river yesterday, on the steamer Telegraph, 
alone, on his return to his old master. His heart was in " Old Virginny," 
and he had no happiness, even with liberty, in the land of strangers. His 
age could not have been less than 70. — Cincinnati Commercial. 



CARRY ME BACK! 177 

Look here, and see the cord that binds 

Alike the master and the man; 
And own how vain your puny minds 

Oppose the might of nature's plan ; 
The bondage of the earth and sky, 

However far the feet may roam — 
The yearning pang that will not die — 

The tyranny of hearth and home. 

Then view the exiles ye have made 

To wander 'midst Canadian snow, 
Still pining for each sunny glade 

From which you counsel 'd them to go; 
How many a heart with grief has broke, 

How many more in silence bleed, 
Who from your wretched schemes awoke 

To find that they were slaves indeed. 

Ye, who have raved of lash and chains, 

Of fetter'd hands and tortures grim, 
Until your dark and heated brains 

With scenes of pandemonium teem, 
As if it were our sole pursuit 

To wield the gyve, the scourge, the rack; 
As each were a ferocious brute 

That hunted the devoted black. 



178 CARIIY ME BACK! 

What, after all, is 't ye would give 

These children of another race ? 
Do they with you like equals live, 

As there were no dividing trace? 
Do ye allow them to be heard 

In throngs that pardon or condemn? 
Or may they say one single word, 

When laws are made to govern them ? 

Where joy and social pleasures flow, 

Do they with ye its mazes tread ? 
Or in the hour of want and woe 

Are you the watchers by their bed ? 
How oft within your glittering halls 

Hath any negro brother trod? 
Alas ! your ban upon him falls 

E 'en at the very shrine of God ! 

What do we more in sight of heaven. 

That ye in terms of scorn condemn? 
Must then our heritage be given — 

Our homes be yielded up to them? 
Or must we drive them from our shore, 

To people your more favor'd clime ? 
The faith, the God whom we adore, 

Assures us this indeed were crime. 



CARRY ME BACK! 179 

What do we more ? We did not make — 

We found their sires what now they are — 
And find we have no power to break 

The bonds that they were doom'd to wear. 
The name is all — they are no worse 

For titles ye affect to dread ; 
Your freedom cancels not the curse — 

Still they must ever toil for bread. 

With us, at least, they have a home, 

Nor wander indigent — forlorn, 
As, midst your northern wilds they roam. 

And weep for scenes where they were born — 
A shade from summer's sultry heat, 

A shelter from the wintry blast. 
An humble but secure retreat, 

When youthful energies are past. 

And Southern hearts are always kind 

And warm as their own earth; 
And all must weep to leave behind 

The spot that gave them birth ! 
And hence, beneath your frozen sky, 

You hear the plaintive strain. 
While tears* bedim the minstrel's eye, 
" carry me back again ! " 



ISriAGAEA. 



Far westward, where the sunlight gleams 
O'er rocky dell and rolling streams ; 
O'er forests boundless to the eye, 
And mountains blending with the sky: 
O'er lakes, whose more than ocean blue 
Fade in the heavens' receding hue ; 
Or kindled with the summer's ray, 
Flash with the bright excess of day ; 
Or rippling on their snowy shore, 
A flood of sparkling diamonds pour ; 
Or lash'd beneath the tempest's wing, 
Skyward their foaming billows fling ; 
Or round the shelving granite curl'd. 
As if they battled with the world. 
With deaf 'ning roar all madly sweep 
The earthquake thunders of the deep ; 



NIAGARA. 181 

But ever as their warring waves 

The demon of the storm enslaves, 

Sink back and smile in slumber's chain 

As if they ne'er could wake again; 

So calm, the sigh would break their rest 

That heaves the sleeping infant's breast ; 

Or forth their devious journey take. 

To mingle with some sister lake : ' 

And bursting from their bounds for ever, 

Majestic flow a giant river ; 

Then soft their curving shores steal by, 

As twilight fades from summer sky, 

As zephyrs o'er the vernal leaj 

As moonlight o'er the tranquil sea — 

Twining on thro' endless ranks 

Of trees that shade their sloping banks ; 

Or drooping in the crystal wave. 

Their green and sunny foliage lave ; 

While many an isle of fairy hue 

With soft enchantment blends the view. 

Thus flow they on from west to east 

Their strength renew'd, their store increased ; 

Till link by link stupendous curl'd, 

Their chain embraces half the world; 

And thus from many a distant shore 

A thousand floods to Erie pour ; 



182 NIAGARA. 

Where mingling seas together fled, 

In more than ocean grandeur spread : 

To fair Ontario's bosom blue, 

Combined their onward course pursue ; 

With strength the powers of earth to brave — 

Niagara's eternal wave — 

In calm and broad meanderings stray, 

Till mountain ramparts bar their way ; 

Then wildly wakes their slumbering might, 

Then upwards dash their billows white, 

Then waves on waves redoubling pour, 

And rush along the granite shore ; 

Till man must tremble to behold 

Their strength sublime together roll'd. 

And from the mountain's awful crown 

In one vast ocean thundering down ; 

The earth aghast, the mountains riven. 

The mist shrouds wreaking up to heaven, 

While thousand startling echoes swell 

The mutter'd thunders where they fell. 

It is as if from heaven was hurl'd 

The ponderous ruins of a world, 

And jarring with their mighty force 

A flood of planets from their course, 

And all in one vast current high 

Kush'd darkling down the breathless sky. 



NIAGAKA. 183 

Down, down the dark green water flows, 
Till boiling eddies o'er them close; 
While o'er their foam that rolls below, 
Gleams forth the many-colored bow, 
And rivals with its beauteous dyes 
That prism glory of the skies. 
While shiver'd rocks that nod around. 
With plumes of pine and cedar crown'd, 
Frown 'neath their shades of living green 
A solemn grandeur o'er the scene. 
But hold ! the muse's starward flight 
Falls to the dust in pale affright ; 
Drops from her hand the golden lyre; 
All chilly grow her robes of fire, 
The mist in clouds above her meet. 
The earth is trembling 'neath her feet, 
Forgets her high immortal powers, 
In silence trembles and adores. 



THE STAR OF THE LEGION OF HONOR.* 



"O'er Ajaccio's spires — Corsica's isle — 
And ocean's breast, that foam'd the while- 
A beauteous paradise of earth ! — 
That star arose to hail my birth, 
And guide me to the haughtiest throne 
That any save the gods have known — 
At least that e'er was bought with blood, 
From Indus to the Volga's flood. 
In halcyon peace or battle fray 
I've read my fortune in its ray — 
When midst night's gorgeous coronal 
Of millions, it outshone them all; 



* "Bonaparte used to say this star made its appearance at the hour of 
his birth, and that by consulting it he could always tell when good for- 
tune awaited him ; for that then it glowed with unusual brightness ; 
but grew pallid and hueless when defeat or disaster were about to befall 
him." — BoTTA. 



THE STAR OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 185 

Or tempest robed, its clieering beam 
Blazed where no other dared to gleam. 
My midnight vigils to beguile, 
I 've watch'd its image in the Nile, 
And where the Magi used to gaze, 
To form the horoscope of kings, 
I 've joy'd to see its silver blaze 
Fall on my eagle's folded wings. 

"O'er Mount St. Bernard's awful hight. 
All redly on the brow of night — 
What time my meteor banners rose 
O'er avalanche and Alpine snows. 
And gather'd up those mighty crowds 
Around my standard in the clouds. 
And still more brilliant did it rise 
Above the smoke-enveloped skies 
Of Mincio — Wagram — Marengo — 
And Hohenlinden's blushing snow. 
When droop'd my standard o'er the field 
Where empires had been taught to yield; 
And brighter still, and brighter glow'd, 
As on the mighty empire flow'd 
That to my very feet swept down 
The Bourbon and the iron crown. 
16 



186 THE STAK OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 

And redder still, and redder beam'dj 

Till Venice — Naples — Rome — were miiie; 

My banners o'er the Tagus stream' d, 
And flamed along the Rhine. 

. ^' And yet, thou bright and glorious star, 
Thou 'st tempted even me too far ; 
I trembled as thy light grew tame 
O'er Moscow's rolling sea of flame, 
And saw an hundred thousand lay 
In death beneath thy frozen ray. 
That instant from my grasp was hurl'd 
The JEgis of a crouching world ; 
And o'er the retrospect of blood, 
A musing, powerless man I stood. 
Till round my throbbing brow accurst 
The crumbling Kremlin's cinders burst. 
I did not weep, I did not pray ; 
I wished not to survive that day ; 
And I had perish'd with a smile. 
Beneath so grand a funeral pile ; 

But Beauharnois and Murat bore 
Me struggling in their arms away. 

Where hilt and rowel red with gore, 
My famish'd ranks had won that day. 



THE STAE OF THE LEGION OF HONOR 187 

" Once more, from Elba's pictured plain, 
I saw thee o'er the stormy main 
So fiercely glow, so redly shine, 
I thought the world again was mine, 
And springing to my glorious France, 
I bared my bosom to her lance. 
And wept, tho' fallen, still to see. 
Of all my veteran soldiery, 
Not one but would, to shield my life. 
Still venture in the deadliest strife; 
And freely, ere my blood had flown, 
A nation would have pour'd its own. 
But, treacherous star! what boots to tell 
The grief — the agony — the hell! 
That wrung my heart, as pallid grew 
Thy blaze o'er damning Waterloo; 
When urged my bugle's wild alarms 
The few against the world in arms ! 

While yet the iron storm was driven, 
And gush'd the war-cloud's crimson rain, 

I saw thy light retreat from heaven. 
And set — to rise — no ! ne'er again ! " 



THE QUEEJ^ CITY. 



'Tis not that hoary minsters rise 

O'er thy ancestral dead, 
"With gorgeous turrets in the skies. 

O'er cross and cowled head; 
'Tis not that regal diadems 

Are glittering in thy halls, 
The starry light of ducal gems, 

The robes of Seneschals. 

'Tis not for proud triumphal arch, 

Or many trophied aisles. 
Where stately knights and barons march, 

And royal beauty smiles : 
From tower and bastion rising o'er, 

No shadow on thee falls ; 
Thou hast no dungeons by thy shore, 

No warder on thy walls. 



THE QUEEN CITY. 189 

'Tis not that history points to thee 

Back through the mist of time, 
A wreck upon life's mighty sea 

Of glory and of crime ; 
Nor yet thy lovely form alone 

The heart so fondly fills, 
Where thou sittest on thy gentle throne, 

With thy coronal of hills. 

'Tis not for things like these that glide 

So swift from earth, I ween. 
That thy children, in their noble pride, 

Have fondly called thee Queen j 
Far other are the sacred ties ^ 

That bind their hearts to thee — 
The vestal fire that never dies. 

The altars of the free. 

'Tis that thy many temple spires 

That greet the rays of morn. 
And kindle with the latest fires 

When daylight is withdrawn ; 
'Tis that the many massive piles 

Upon thy shores that throng. 
Were never purchased by the spoils 

Of tyranny and wrong. 



190 THE QUEEN CITY. 

'Tis that thou art a boon indeed, 

A blessing to mankind, 
'Tis for thy Atalanta's speed 

Upon the march of mind ; 
'Tis that thou art the laborer's friend, 

The chosen home of art — 
Our blessings on thy ways attend, 

Thou Florence of the heart. 



:n'apoleo]^'S bequest.* 



"When life's Promethean fires decay, 

As soon or late I know they must, 
And earth shall fold her frozen clay 

For ever o'er my shrouded dust, 
I would no hollow pomp of words 

Above my humble grave were seen ; 
The world, alas ! too well affords. 

What I am now — what I have been : 
My name ! is it not written with my lance. 
On earth to live while lives the name of France. 

Then leave me, like that countless world 

Who, to uphold my purple throne. 
Have fallen where'er my flag unfurl 'd. 

Where'er my star of terror shone. 

* Bonaparte expressed a desire to be buried beneath some willows that 
grow near his residence, upon the island of his imprisonment, and that 
there should be no inscription on his tomb, save only the letter " N." 



192 NAPOLEON'S BEQUEST, 

Aye, leave me to a nameless grave, 

Beneath the willow's mournful bough, 
My dirge the ocean's cavern'd wave. 
I would not be remembered now — 
At least by things that art so oft hath lent. 
An epitaph forsooth ! a marble monument ! 

Gaze ye upon the ancient Troad, where 

The proud hosts of demi-gods were slain; 
Flamed mighty Illium on the midnight air, 

While bright Scamander crimson'd to the main ! 
Did not thy tomb, Achilles, there arise 

As island mountains from the ocean leap, 
"Whose soaring summit pierced the riven skies,. 
To guard the pillow of thy final sleep ? 
Fair Ida still the traveler's gaze may chain, 
But this, alas ! scarce undulates the plain. 

There gleams no altar through Paestium's gloom; 
Grows the rank grass, fallen Ephesus, o'er thee; 
All urnless is the proud Athenian's tomb. 

That from Colonna's hight looks lonely o'er the 
sea; 
Where is the marble Adrian taught to climb ? 
Ask Thebes and Carnack for their granite 
towers, 



NAPOLEON'S EEQUEST. 193 

Could Babel 's Alp resist the shock of time ? 
The jackal now in Persepolis cowers ; 
The night-owl hoots, the envenoni'd spider crawls, 
And weaves his meshes o'er Alhambra's walls. 

Thou distant land where sinks the solar flame, 

Columbia, in thy dark untrodden wild. 
Without a date, a record, or a name, 

Full many a mighty sepulchre is piled. 
Far to the west thy boundless prairies spread, 

With hues that shame the blazonry of even, 
Soft as the Elysium Indians hope to tread. 

And wilder far than their own fabled heaven. 
Swells there not o'er them many a giant mound. 
Whose very builders are a mystery profound? 

A pile like Cheops o'er my manes. 

Or dark Cholula, would ye rear ? 

The Simplon still a trace retains 

Of what I was, go read it there. 

My name is on St. Bernard's hight, 

And on the Kremlin's blacken'd dome. 

And plain as conquering steel may write, 

'Tis graven on the gates of Rome ; 

The sun shall fade, the heavens be wrapp'd in flame. 

Ere tyrants cease to dread or earth forgets my name ! 

17 



TO THE MEMORY OF DR. ALEX. ROSS. 



Of gentle Spring's most gorgeous day 
It was the parting hour -, the sun had set, 
But Hke the fallen patriot, his glory 
Shone from his grave ; and on the soft horizon 
Linger'd — fraught with innumerable dyes — 
The bright and burning heraldry of heaven. 
It was an evening such as travelers say 
Is wont to- smile above the Eternal City, 
Changing the yellow Tiber to a purple flood, 
And casting shadows like imperial robes 
Upon the crumbling walls of the Coliseum ; 
Not e'en a zephyr's breath ruffles the bosom 
Of the slumbering waters, above whose calm 
Cerulean surface, like young unconcious beauty 
O'er her mirror — the sky approving hangs. 
And kindles into lovelier charms by gazing 
Upon the soften'd image of her own perfections. 
The earth is green, and from the solemn air 



TO THE MEMORY OF DR. ALEX. ROSS. 195 

The breathings of a thousand flowers arise, 

It may be, to the portals of the blest in heaven. 

The forest boughs are drooping with their robes 

Of silken verdure, and their shade is musical 

And sparkling with a race who know no sorrow. 

why should scenes so beautiful be marred — i 

And the eyes' revelry, and the heart's high throb 

Of pleasure and of gratitude be dimm'd. 

And frozen by the chill of death ! why should man. 

Immortal, with the beauty and the symmetry of God, 

With power to contemplate and feelings to adore, 

From out this temple, warm, and bright. 

And beautiful, at such an hour be torn. 

To mingle with the dust to moulder there ? 

The dj*eam, dear Ross, the spell of thy existence — 

Has fled indeed ; but still the aching heart. 

Will treasure in its inmost, holiest shrine, 

More precious since their source is lost for ever, 

The priceless reminiscences of thee. 

Few were thy years, and yet thy ardent soul, 

A harvest rich of classic lore had reaped — 

Poetic thought, and lofty imagery ! 

They knew thee not who deem'd thee cold 

And distant ; thy heart was formed for friendship, 

And was, ever, open to the wants, the anguish, 

And the woes of others 



196 TO THE MEMORY OF DR. ALEX. ROSS. 

'Twas ours to meet in boyhood, and this heart 

Must lose its warmth, and, frozen in the grave, 

Lie tranquil as thine own, ere the sweet memory 

Of that young affection, and the halo 

Of those sunny hours can fade. For even then 

Thy thoughts, unfledg'd, were fluttering upwards, 

And marshaling the way to that empyrean, 

To which in after years they wing'd their flight ! 

How oft beneath the glowing azure even, 

Did we walk forth, wrapt in the interchange 

Of kindred thoughts. How fresh and balmy 

Around this wither'd heart arise 

The dewy memories of those treasured hours ! 

'Twas then the burning thirst, th' insatiable desire, 

To quaff of Castilla the immortal draught. 

First fired this heart. 

And oh! if 'midst the thorns of disappointment, 

The gloom, the ashes, and the dust 

Of blighted hopes — this bleeding heart 

Hath gleaned upon life's lonely path 

Some scatter'd flowers of science and of poesy, 

'Twas thee that pointed to their bloom. 

There came an hour — can I forget it ever — 

Of fell and loathed disease ; my burning form 

Was pestilent, and o'er my brain 

The fearful wings of frenzy flapped, and spread 



TO THE MEMORY OF DR. ALEX. ROSS. 197 

A night — a very chaos — o'er my soul. 

They said that I must die. And few had dared 

In that dread hour to look upon my corse. But thou, 

Tho' friends, and home, and country were afar, 

Wert more to me than brother! 

And in that moment, had my spirit passed 

From out its dwelling and this vale of sorrow, 

Thou then hadst done for me, what feebly I 

Attempt, but with no greater agony, for thee. 

Thy accents soothed, thy hand did kindly min'ster, 

And I was spared — ^to see thee struggle with 

If a more certain, not so horrible mortality. 

And I did see thee in thy latest hour, 

When anxious friends and kindred stood around. 

And gave thee up to heaven. 

The dawn of manhood scarcely marked thy brow, 

And every hope that life can give was thine. 

And they were fleeting ! but thy soul was firm, 

Unchanged, and brightening, as the gloom. 

The shadow of oblivion came — 

And they who gazed upon thy calmness, said: 

''Oh ! let the Christian's death be mine, 

And let my latest moments be like his." 



TO THE MEMORY OF * * * * 



Cold, cold on our hearts fell the bolts of despair, 
As we counted the strokes of the funeral bell 

When in thunder its iron lips wail'd on the air 
Their solemn, their final, eternal farewell. 

How sad were the hearts that in sorrow drew near 
The couch where thy corpse in its stillness reposed, 

To know that our grief could not waken thine ear, 
That thine eje to our anguish for ever was cloevd. 

How memory recalled in the gloom of that hour 
Each word of endearment, each kindly embLajCo 

The bounties thy hand did incessantly shower, 
The soul of compassion that beam'd in thy fa,c« 

Our mother ! our counsellor! guide upon ea/Ji! 

How lorn is the circle thy loss has bereft? " 
Our hearts have no language to utter thy w roll, 

Or record the pang thy departure has lefi 



TO THE MEMORY OF * * * * 199 

We miss thee at mom when the bible is read, 
We tearfully gaze on thy tenantless chair, 

Where oft on thy knees its dear pages were spread,. 
As we knelt round thy form in the circle of prayer. 

We miss thee at noon when the repast is o'er, ^ 

When the sun in his glory encircles the earth ; 

But most, dearest mother, thy loss we deplore 

When the embers of evening are bright on the 
hearth. 

Yet scarce can we feel that thy spirit has fled 
To the world where all sorrow for ever is o'er. 

That thy form has been borne to the halls of the dead, 
That "the places that knew thee shall know thee 
no more." 

But alas ! when we look for thy soul-beaming eye. 
When we list for the words that you once used to 
speak. 
We turn from the sorrowful scene with a sigh, 

For the tears are still coursing each sorrow-worn 
cheek. 

The flowers of the garden neglected grow wild. 
We heed not their fragrance, we see not their bloom; 



200 TO THE MEMORY OP * * * * 

They are useless tho' fair as when paradise smiled, 
Save those that we gather to garland thy tomb. 

Alike are all seasons, alike are all scenes, 

To the hearts that are steep'd in the color of woe, 

In vain for a solace on shadows it leans. 

And all things are shadows that dwell here below. 

The autumn may russet the hills with his dyes. 
The spring may return to impurple the plain, 

But what shall give back the lost one to our eyes; 
0, what shall restore us our idol again. 

Farewell, dearest mother ! thy ashes shall rest 
Undisturbed where affection thy relics has laid, 

Till the skies shall be filled with the throngs of the 
blest 
In the light and the glory of angels array 'd. 

Then, then we may hope, if our sins are forgiven, 
For ever again with thy spirit to dwell 

In peace at the feet of our Savior in heaven : 

In that hope we will live. Farewell ! ! Farewell ! 



THE CREATION OF WOMAN, 



DEDICATED TO MY WIFE. 



When first the green earth in her primal grace, 

Leap'd out of chaos to the skies' embrace — 

When first the sun through dark'ling space was roll'd, 

And tinged its vapors with his blaze of gold — 

Creation's God upon the world descends. 

While heaven's pure hosts in crowd on crowd attends ; 

A flood of incense hovers o'er his way, 

And flowers profusely sprmg where'er his footsteps 

stray. 
He breathed upon the earth — and instant upwards 

rose 
Each shrub, plant, tree, and every flower that blows; 
He waves his hand — and every living thing. 
In earth, sea, air, at once to being spring. 
Let 's now make man, the Sire of nature said, 
And on the dust his plastic finger laid : 



202 THE CREATION OF WOMAN. 

The dust, instinctivej to his touch grew warm, 

And fashioned Kke the glory of his form; 

Then breathed upon him, to complete the whole : 

That instant man "became a living soul." 

Then in a cloud of more than crystal light. 

With flashing plumes and robes of dazzling white, 

Slow o'er the yielding s]3ace the hosts of heaven arise, 

While softest music fills the ambient skies ; 

The ocean heaves upon the vernal shores; 

The fragrant earth a flood of incense pours ; 

While every living thing their vocal powers employ — ■ 

The air is fiU'd with praise, the planets leap with joy. 

Farther and fainter died that melody away, 

Till God was lost within the blaze of day ; 

The mortal could not speak, so great the bliss he felt — 

But long in praise and adoration knelt. 

And upward strained his streaming eyes. 

Until that throng were blended with the skies ; 

And then, delighted, o'er the world he strays. 

Upon the mammoth rides, or with the panther plays; 

From- the warm earth obtains the luscious roots. 

And from the fragrant trees their glowing fruits; 

Sips honey wild that from the granite flows. 

And binds his forehead with the blushing rose ; 

Bathed in the streams, or on their margin strayed, 

Bask'd in the genial air, or slumber'd in the shade ; 



THE CREATION OF WOMAN. 203 

Made every gift of paradise his own — 

And yet he was not bless'd — because he was alone : 

Alone he wander'd on the pebbled shore; 

Alone he saw the silvery torrents pour; 

Alone he strayed through labyrinths of bloom; 

Alone inhaled their odorous perfume ; 

Alone he gazed upon the evening star; 

Alone he knelt in solitary prayer; 

Alone in joy he smiled — in sorrow wept; 

And on this boundless world alone he slept. 

Why it should be, he knew not — could not tell, 

But his lone heart would often aching swell; 

His anxious thoughts in dreams would often stray 

To some pure blissful being far away. 

At length, at eve, beneath a primal rose, 

His limbs reclined in feverish repose; 

The cooling zephyrs o'er his bosom creep. 

And soothe his throbbing pulse, and lull his eyes 

to sleep. 
The mellow moonlight softly stream'd 
Amidst a sky where countless planets beam'd ; 
Sleep bound each insect, reptile, beast and bird; 
Nor silky leaf or blade of grass was stirred; i 

The forest's bosom not a zephyr heaves; 
The dew-drops rest secure upon the aspen leaves ; 



204 THE CKEATION OF WOMAN. 

And soft the shade the distant mountain flings, 
As those that fall in heaven from spirit wings ; 
Each torrent voiceless falls, each stream in silence 

flows, 
Nought breaks the solemn hush of nature's huge 

repose. 

He dream'd that in his arms an angel's image laj, 
And o'er his kindling cheek her sunny ringlets stray ! 
He thought that melting eyes were .gazing on his own, 
And to his lips was press'd a rose-bud nearly blown. 
He woke. It was no dream — and he indeed was 

bless'd ; 
'Twas woman's eye that beam'd — 'twas woman's lip 

that press'd. 

0, pure as the rose when it bursts to view. 

Ere a zephyr hath rifled its virgin hue, 

Ere the glowing lips of the morning's ray 

Hath kissed its bloom and its balm away, 

While the air is rife with its fragrant sighs. 

And the dew on its damask bosom lies. 

As timid and blushing it peers o'er the lawn, 

'Neath the chaste caress of the passionless dawn — 

Thus woman's gentle form and mien, 

Mid the silvery light of that tranquil scene, 



THE CREATION OF WOMAN. 205 

And her beauty enhanced by her tender alarms, 
As the moonhght betray'd her omnipotent charms ; 
Her dehcate foot on the green earth fell, 
Like an orient pearl on its own bright shell — 
And you fear'd lest the light, or the zephyrs warm, 
Should dissolve away its snowy form ; 
Her graceful limbs' harmonious swell — • 
Go, paint a dream! — you may as well — 
Or grasp the rainbow, or enchain 
The soul of music's dying strain. 
Or hoard the moon's evanescent ray, 
As woman's angel charms portray. 

She was not tall. But there was given 
To her fair brow so much of heaven. 
And her soft blue eyes were so divine. 
You knelt as at some holy shrine; 
Beneath her bright hair's sunny flow, 
Her swan-like neck and breast of snow, 
A thousand mantling blushes streak, 
And upwards stray to her glowing cheek ; 
And gods in heaven might sigh to sip 
The passion-dew from her balmy lip — 
For oh ! the spell of her melting kiss 
Convey'd to the soul -an eternal bliss; 



206 THE CREATION OF WOMAN". 

And but for her hand's enslaving thrill, 

And the passionate ray of her kindling eyes, 

He well might have deemed her a vision still. 
Which the mirror of sleep alone supplies. 

Then music fell upon the ravish'd ear — 

The strain of spirit forms, invisible but near — 

Receding slowly, dying faint and far, 

While words like these float through the crystal air. 

Go, mete the dark ocean and compass the world, 
As far as its limits by man can be trod, 

Or mount where the bright wings of cherubs are 
furl'd 
O'er the fountains of bliss in the presence of God. 

Go, delve the sea-cavern's unfathom'd abyss. 

Where mountains of coral and pearl are in store, 

Or stray where the bright floods of Havalah kiss 
The masses of gold that illumine their shore. 

Go, bask in the shade of the orient isles. 

Where the citron and orange are ever in bloom — 

Where spring o'er their verdure eternally smiles. 
And the sea-foam is fraught with their breath of 
perfume. 



THE CREATION OF WOMAN. 207 

Go, weigh every gem, and survey every flower, 
That iUumines the sea or enamels the plain — 

In the darkest recess or the sunniest bower 
That the earth can afford or the ocean retain. 

And say if there 's aught in its limitless range 
Like the idol that now for thy worship is given ; 

Or price thy devotion could ever estrange 

From the sister of angels, the daughter of heaven? 

Oh, woman — dear woman, tho' fragile thy frame, 
As the lily, thy sister, thou'rt born to control 

The impulse to glory, the fountain of fame : 

The heart is thy subject, thy throne is the soul. 

Like the boughs of the lotus thy presence shall be, 
And the pilgrim or exile, while sadly they roam, 

Shall forget in their rapture, if smiled on by thee. 
The memory of childhood, the magic of home. 

And gloomy the palace and lonely the bower, 

Tho' mammon may store them with all that is rare; 

The gem has no lustre, the lute has no power, 
Unless thy dominion of passion is there. 



208 THE CREATION OE WOMAN. 

In thy glance the broad banner of empire shall wave, 
And the light of thy smile to defend or obtain, 

Proud monarchs shall hazard the dungeon or grave, 
And the blood of their armies be shower'd like rain. 

And greener and brighter thy empire shall stray, 
And ever — for ever, thy sway shall abide; 

Still hallowing ruin and cheering decay, 

While the sky has a star or the ocean a tide. 

The music faded ; and the air again 

Was hush'd as marble in the mountain's breast ; 
The dew still pearl 'd the emerald plain, 

The moon still hallow 'd the ocean's rest. 
The vernal earth in that dawn of time, 
Undimm'd by decay and unsullied by crime, 
By angels guarded, by seraphs trod — 
The garden of heaven, the "footstool of God," 
Had not in its boundless range of bliss 
A place so delightingly form'd as this ; 
The tranquil lake, the bright cascade. 
The grot with sparkling gems array 'd. 
The fountain of fragrance, the crystal stream, 
Of whose beauty we now may only dream ; 
The sloping hill, the rocky tower. 



THE CREATION OF WOMAN. 209 

The arbor of roses and jasmine bower; 

All that is lovely in form or in dye, 

All that can gladden the taste or the eye, 

All that is balmy, or gorgeous, or dear, 

In harmony met, and mingled here. 

The music was gone, but its spell serene. 

In soft enchantment still held the scene ; 

While the sky was so lucid, so stainless, so free, 

Its beauty outrival 'd the depths of the sea; 

The very beasts that were gather'd around 

Seem'd to share in the spell of that bliss profound, 

While pinions of gold and silvery plume 

All motionless droop'd 'midst the groves of perfume ; 

And something there was in earth and in air 

That whisper'd the presence of God was there ! 

But these were not felt, were not thought of then, 
For woman had smiled on the sire of men; 
And her form's enchantment — her eye's control, 
Were the universe to his heart and soul. 

Who hath not known a magic power, 

A spell which language scarce can name, 

Shed o'er his heart in such an hour, 

From eyes of light and lips of flame ? 
18 



210 THE CEEATION OF WOMAN. 

Who hath not knelt at beauty's feet, 

And felt the very air more mild, 
The sky more soft, the earth more sweet. 

When woman sigh'd — when woman smiled ? 

Who hath not felt love's sway sublime, 
Till joy could only speak in tears — 

And tasted, in a breath of time, 
The rapture of a thousand years ? 



TO ALTHEA. 



My little Pet, my little Pet, 

Dost thou remember still. 
The quiet spot where first we met, 

The grove upon the hill ; 
With the stately capitol in sight, 

The green and sloping grounds. 
Where oft beneath the starry night 

We walk'd our lonely rounds? 

How we gazed that summer even, 

Where the broad Potomac roll'd 
In the distance, 'neath the heaven, 

All covered o'er with gold ! 
And we linger' d till the colors brief 

Had faded from on high — 
Till the pearly dew was on the leaf, 

The moon was in the sky. 



212 V TO ALTHEA. 

Thou wer't pensive, then, my little Pet, 

Thy lip had lost its hue, 
Thy fawn-like eyes were often wet, 

Thy words were sad and few — 
Thy lovely curls were parted 

O'er a brow as pale as death. 
And I listen'd, broken-hearted. 

To thy slow and fainting breath. 

My grief I may not ever speak 

As I watch'd thee, day by day. 
And saw the life upon thy cheek 

Like sun-light fade away; 
Thy voice of seraph sweetness 

As a lute's expiring tone. 
Or the dying zephyr's fleetness 

Sunk to a feeble moan — > 

As I saw thy little angel head 

By sorrow stricken low. 
Upon thy all neglected bed, 

A thing of want and woe — 
Thy little form of love and light, 

Like a shrunk and fading flower, 
When the evil of some hideous blight 

Assails the summer bower. 



TO ALTHEA. 213 

But I loved thee all the dearer, 

And my love became more true, 
The nearer and the nearer 

Death's fearful shadow grew. 
And as I stood beside thee, 

I vow'd if God would spare, 
Wliat ills might thence betide thee, 

I'd relieve, or I would share. 

How many gleams of gladness 

Our hearts since then have known, 
'Neath the heavy cloud of sadness 

That o'er our path was thrown; 
How long we've been divided. 

While our h-earts have beat with pain, 
As the leaden moments glided 

That form our heavy chain. 

There the arbor-vitse and the box 

Are still a« green and fair. 
And the lithe laburnum throws its locks 

Of gold upon the air; 
And the fountain still is gushing — 

Its showers of diamonds shine — 
And the purple rose is blushing 

Through the meshes of the vine. 



214 TO ALTHEA. 

Again I lead thy little feet 

Beneath those dark old pines. 
Or find for thee the mossy seat 

When the golden sun declines; 
Again I pluck the dewy flowers 

To wreath thy glossy hair, 
But wake to find the cheating hours 

Have left me but despair. 

For my soul is ever dreaming 

Of that far and fairy place, 
With the mellow moonlight beaming 

On thy more than angel face, 
The words that then were spoken 

Come like a spirit call ; 
And their spell is yet unbroken, 

For my heart has treasured all. 



TO MY LITTLE STEP-DAUGHTEK. 

MARY AUGUSTA » * » » * 

0, IF the kind indulgent powers 

To whom we pray would hear me now, 
I 'd waft the breath of Eden flowers 

Around thy fair and sinless brow ; 
I 'd win the softest hues of even 

That o'er the rising Hesper fleet, 
And make the peaceful bow of heaven 

A pathway for thy childish feet. 

The wealth of every orient mine — 

And orient wave — thy hair should deck; 
I 'd have the starry diamond shine 

And sparkle round thy snowy neck ; 
The webs of Ypres veil thy breast, 

The soft and stainless ermine warm. 
And robes in sunny Naples drest 

Should flow around thy graceful form. 



216 TO MY LITTLE STEP-DAUGHTER. 

The only tones that met thine ear 

Should be of music's melting strain, 
And all the scenes beloved and dear 

For ever near thee should remain ; 
And, when the health-restoring hour 

Of sleep should close thy gentle eyes, 
Thy couch should be a rosy bower; 

Thy dreams should be a paradise. 

Thy steps should press each fairy spot 

That e'er the voyager's sight hath known— 
The isles, whose floral bosoms dot 

The oceans of each spicy zone^— 
The spreading palm should shelter thee 

Beneath those fair Arabian skies. 
Where waves the budding almond-tree. 

Where Irem's fabled gardens rise. 

And thou should'st tread those classic shores, 

And rest thee by each ruin'd shrine 
That hallow'd genius still adores, 

That beauty renders still divine — 
Should'st stray where bright Cephisus flows, 

And through Alhambra's dreamy halls. 
Where tower Chamouni's virgin snows. 

And where the dark Valino falls ; 



TO MY LITTLE STEP-DAUGHTER. 217 

And where the silent sacred grove 

Of lone Vaucluse is verdant yet, 
And where the dust of martyr'd love 

Still hallows saintly Paraclet : 
Should wander at the silent noon 

Where Mantua's mighty minstrel sleeps, 
And 'neath the fair Ausonian moon 

Behold the tears Egeria weeps. 

And in the bosom of the Rhine 

Should'st see his runic towers appear, 
And 'neath Venetian skies recline 

To list the passing gondolier ; 
And bid the fisher o'er his boat. 

On blue Lucerne, suspend his oar, 
To hear the Rans de Vaches float 

In echoes round the pictured shore — 

Where many a dome of marble springs 

O'er miracles by genius wrought, 
More priceless than the wealth of kings. 

The fixed and breathing forms of thought ; 
Through many an ancient cloister'd pile. 

With groined roof and oriel dim. 

And sculptured niche and fretted aisle, 

Where rolls the solemn vesper hymn. 
19 



218 TO MY LITTLE STEP-DAUGHTER. 

Through old ^gina's whispering groves, 

By Lusitania's purple strand, 
And where the clear Pactolus roves 

And ripples o'er his golden sand : 
And when amidst these scenes you stray, 

Far o'er the wide and rolhng sea, 
That heaven's protecting smile, I 'd pray, 

For ever might be over thee. 



WILT THOU EOAM WITH ME? 

A BALLAD TO ALTHEA. 

Wilt thou roam with me, love? 

Wilt thou roam with me, 
Beneath eve's dewy star, my love, 

That shines to welcome thee ? 
On the banks of Licking river 

The red-bud is in bloom. 
And the leaves of the aspen quiver, 

Like down on a warrior's plume. 

The dogwood opes its snowy breast, 

To the soft and perfumed air, 
And the freshest moss thy foot e'er press'd 

Spreads its luxuriance there. 
And pure as thy blush, my gentle love, 

Are the violets springing now ; 
And the winds grow incense as they rove, 

With the scent of the locust bough. 



220 WILT THOU EOAM WITH ME? 

By that lone and lovely river, 

What tho' no costly shrine, 
Like those by the Guadalquiver, 

Or ever-glorious Rhine ; 
No ivied hall or ruined towers, 

Are imaged in its flood, 
Yet has it ran, in other hours, 

As red with heroes' blood- 
Its shores have seen the dread array, 

Of many a plumed throng, 
Have echo'd the shouts of the wild foray. 

The notes of the battle song : 
And on our memory they have claims 

That should not perish, soon, 
For they are linked with deathless names 

Of Kenton and of Boone. 

On the banks of this quiet river 

There is a lonely glen, 
Where the foot of man hath never. 

Or rarely ever been ; 
The wild rose purples all the shore, 

The spice-wood sheds perfume, 
The maple and the sycamore 

Make ever twilight gloom. 



WILT THOU KOAM WITH ME? 221 

There flowering creepers o'er thee meet, 

And vines are waving free, 
Like the cordage of a mighty fleet 

Upon a summer sea. 
The nimble squirrel seeks their boughs, 

And the wild and timid deer 
Beneath their lofty shadows browse, 

Or slumber without fear. 

And here those gentle beings meet, 

That visit us in dreams — 
Who skim the air with pearly feet, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams — 
Who tread the ocean's snowy sands. 

Or trip upon the green, 
With their white and starry jewel'd wands, 

And their robes of silver sheen. 

They 've twined a bower for thee, love. 

In this realm so sweet and lone ; 
A canopy of leaves above 

A soft and flowery throne : 
And thou, within this spicy grove. 

Their crowned queen shall be, 
If thou wilt roam with me, my love, 

If thou wilt roam with me. 



LOYE'S EEMO:^rSTKANCE. 



Go prate to the waters, that mirror the moon 

In loveliness beaming on high, 
Or the sun-flower, ardently turning at noon 

To worship the god of the skyj 

Go chide the lone needle, that silently dwells, 
Like a deathless desire of the soul. 

On the love that it constantly, tremblingly tells, 
As it timidly points to the pole ; 

Go frown at the stars, and forbid them to beam 
On the earth in her lovely repose ; 

Go lecture the zephyr, that comes like a dream 
To toy with the folds of the rose j 



LOVE'S REMONSTRANCE. 223 

But do not complain if my eyes should reveal, 

By an impulse more truly divine, 
The conquerless passion — the worship I feel 

For that spirit-like beauty of thine ! 

'Tis said, when the rays of the morning were warm 

On the statue of Memnon, my dear, 
Soft notes o'er the pillar of marble would swarm. 

Like an anthem of God on the ear. 

And thus, in the night of your absence, my heart. 

Like the stone of that statue, is cold, 
But the spell of your presence can ever impart 

A rapture that cannot be told. 

Oh ! name not, my dearest, your formal decree 
Against courting "young ladies at school;" 

Ah ! what is your pedagogue proser to me, 
With his science, his birch, and his rule ? 

The fusty old despot may frown, if he will. 

And talk of his lore and his books ; 
There is room in thy lattice, in spite of his skill, 

For my ladder to fasten its hooks. 



224 LOVE'S REMONSTRANCE. 

Oh ! lovely the light of those delicate feet 
On its soft silken cords will appear ; 

And thy form, like an angel's descending to meet 
Some languishing worshipper here. 

Then preach to the bird that will soar to the sun, 
Till dazzled and blind with its rays ; 

Or the insect that flies round thy candle, dear one, 
Till its Hfe is consumed in the blaze. 

Like them, oh ! perchance, all my love is in vain. 
Yet tho' death wing'd his dart from thine eye j 

He could not my bosom's devotion restrain, 
I would gaze on thy beauty and die. 



TO 



The cliarm has fled, the dream is o'er, 

The last fond tie is riven; 
And we shall part to meet no more, 

Unless, perchance, in heaven ! 

A few brief days and I shall be 

In that bright sunny clime 
Where waves the golden orange-tree. 

And blooms the fragrant lime. 

Where Zephyr from the tropic isles 
Is fraught with rich perfume ; 

Where heaven bestows its warmest smiles, 
And earth its rarest bloom. 



226 TO 

many a radiant form is there, 
With coral lips and snowy brow. 

And eye of soul, and step of air. 
Like those that haunt me now. 

But these no link of thought endears 
Like those from which I part— 

They cannot soothe my burning tears, 
Or cheer my broken heart. 

Adieu, and if I e'er should kneel 

My varied wants to tell, 
I'll pray that thou may'st never feel 

This anguish. — Fare thee well 1 



*aisr COELO QUIES.' 



Ha YE hopes for ever fled 

Once fondly cherish'd ? 
Are tears of anguish shed 

O'er feeling perish'd ? 
This truth alone can cheer 

The heart by sorrow riven, 
And dry the burning tear : 

There 's rest in Heaven. 

Those orbs that nightly burn, 

Like beacons for the bless'd. 
Making the bosom yearn 

To fly and be at rest — 
This message to impart 

they were surely given, 
To tell the aching heart : 

There's rest in Heaven. 



228 "IN CCELO QUIES/' 

O'er the forgotten tomb 

The softest dews are shed, 
And flowers will brightest bloom 

Above the nameless dead ; 
Even the funeral toll, 

That tells of friends beriven, 
Whispers the troubled soul : 

There 's rest in Heaven. 

The tempest's hollow moan, 
The murmurs of the sea. 
The thunder's solemn tone, 

The echoes of the lea. 
Say there is One can save 

The pure and the forgiven : 
There 's quiet in the grave — 

There 's rest in Heaven. 



WRITTEJS- FOE AN ALBUM 



I WOULD not thou shouldst think of me, 

When nature all is bright, 
When every bower is filled with glee, 

When every heart is light ; 
But when the hollow tempest grieves 

Along the naked lea, 
And round thee fall the yellow leaves, 

then remember me. 

I would not thou shouldst think of me, 

When round the social hearth 
Are met the friends beloved by thee 

Above all friends of earth ; 
But when each happy form has fled. 

And thy home shall silent be. 
Save the echoes of thy lonely tread, 

O then remember me. 



230 WRITTEN FOR AN ALBUM. 

And, oh ! should sorrow ever cloud 

Thy fair and sunny brow, 
And thy young heart become the shroud 

Of hopes that cheer thee now ; 
Then, when at morn or silent even 

The crowd you anxious flee, 
To pour your gentle prayers to Heaven, 

then remember me. 



THE EEQUEST. 



" Let me die with the deep and sublime emotions inspired by 
strength and beauty in ruins." — Walter Colton. 



BEAR me where the wither'd flowers 

Of autumn strew the ground, 
And the rustling leaves of serried bowers 

Wave mournfully around — 
When the gentle shades of twilight vail 

The chill and sombre sky; 
And the night-wind breathes its mystic wail 

'er my couch, as it passes by : 

For I would no pageantry of earth 

Should greet my closing eye, 
Or star that glitter'd o'er my birth, 

When I am called to die ; 
But be the links that love hath cast 

Around my soul unriven ; 
Without the memory of the past, 

1 scarce could wish for heaven. 



232 A REQUEST. 

Or let my wasted form recline 

Midst the wreck of olden days, 
Where the palm root or the cluster.'d vine 

O'er sculptured marble strays; 
Within some lone and voiceless hall, 

That dim with age appears, 
Whose columns totter to their fall 

Beneath a thousand years — 

Where the dreamy Guadalquiver flows 

By Moorish tower and dome, 
Or the gray obelisk its shadow throws 

O'er the crumbling fanes of Rome; 
Where the bright Cephisus ripples on 

'er many a fallen shrine ; 
Where the pillars of the Parthenon 

Are still indeed divine : 

These may invoke the perish'd dreams 

Entomb'd with brighter years, 
Ere my cheek had felt in lava streams 

The bitterness of tears ! 
And my soul would easier burst the chain 

Of earth as it flits away, 
Inspired by strength upon the wane, 

And beauty in decay ! 



STANZAS. 



The rosy clouds of even, 

The colors of the dawn, 
Blush instant o'er the heaven — 

We gaze, and they are gone ; 
And yet the transient prospect 

Will leave a thought behind. 
That oft shall beam in retrospect 

Refulgent o'er the mind. 

And though love is from heaven. 
Nor can on earth be stayed, 

And hope is only given 
To glitter and to fade. 

Yet boyhood's dreams of gladness 
Will never all depart. 

But oft in hours of sadness. 

They gleam upon the heart. 

20 



234 STANZAS. 

So bright, so pure the flowers 

In summer greet our eyes, 
We deem from heavenly bowers 

Their perfumes and their dyes ; 
But dearer is the autumn one 

We plucked with eager haste. 
That blooms when all the rest are gone, 

And smiles amidst the waste. 

So when the hope of early years 

No more our hearts illume, 
Ambition's fires are quench'd in tears, 

And love is in the tomb — 
Still there are other visions bright 

That can our hearts beguile — 
Religion's pure and holy light, 

And friendship's cheering smile. 



A.'N IMPROMPTU. 



TO 



THOU art beautiful ! Thine eye's dark glance 

Stirs like the thrill by music given, 
When the listener, wrapt in its golden trance, 

Is dreaming delusions of hope and heaven. 

Balmy and bright as the blush of spring, 
Thy young lip would spurn an angel's vow ; 

And dark as the gloss of the raven's wing 

Are the tresses that cluster thy moon-lit brow. 

Could the Parian mould of the Cyprian queen, 
Like Pygmalion's ivory statue, grow warm. 

And step from her pedestal forth, I ween 

Thou wouldst rival the charms of her faultless 
form. 



236 AN IMPKOMPTU. 

Yet the votaries of love need liave no alarms, 

Tho' their idol at length has been rival'd by you ; 

For tho' thou hast more than her sculptured charms, 
Thou hast all of her marble coldness too. 



I DO NOT k:n^ow thee, 



I DO not know thee, gentle one ; 

But they tell me thou art fair, 
With a brow as pure as Parian stone, 

And clouds of sunny hair. 

Teeth that would rival orient pearl, 

And lips the coral mine, 
An eye like a dewy star, fair girl. 

And a Psyche's form, are thine. 

They say thy voice is like the tone 

Of zephyrs stealing o'er 
jEolian harp-strings, placed alone 

In some Arcadian bower. 

With a step elastic as a bird 
Upon a yieldiug bough — 



238 I DO NOT KNOW THEE. 

So bright, so beautiful, I 've heard, 
Dear unknown one, art thou. 

And oh, they say, that while thy form 

Is the home of every grace. 
That mind is breathing bright and warm, 

Like music, from thy face. 

And better far than this — than all — 
They say thy heart is given 

To Him who perish'd to recall 
The bright, the pure, to heaven. 

I do not know thee, gentle onej 

But if this all should be. 
Whene'er you kneel at Mercy's throne, 

breathe one prayer for me ; 

And I will hope there is a clime, 

Where thou wilt be a radiant thing — 

A being of the sky. 

With a halo on thy rusthng wing, 

And a love-spell in thine eye. 

Till then adieu ! 'Tis fate's decree. 
And I may not control — 



I DO NOT KNOW THEE. 239 

That wills dear woman's smile to me 
What the sun is to the pole. 

My name — yes, I will trace it here, 

Like a line upon a tomb 
Where sweet and glowing flowers appear, 

'er the mouldering urn of gloom. 



TO A POCKET HANDKERCHIEF, 



HAST thou drank of the orient breeze 

Where fair Cytheria smiles, 
Or stray 'd where the lime and orange trees 

'ershadow Hesperian Isles ? 
Hast thou dwelt in the distant Eden bowers 

Of Araby the bless'd, 
Or lain with the white magnolia flowers 

In the groves of the virgin west ? 

Has the breath of the spicy Carribee, 

Thy delicate web unroll'd, 
Where the wavelets of the tropic sea 

Melt over their sands of gold, 
Where nightly his fair Sultana hears 

The song of her dear Bulbul ? 
Hast thou treasured up like saintly tears 

The drops of attergul. 



TO A POCKET HANDKERCHIEF. 241 

would that thou hadst power to speak, 

Hadst mind by which to know 
What brings this moisture to my cheek, 

This palor o'er my brow ; 
For thou comest not oppress'd 

With the sweets of each foreign land, 
Thy envy'd folds were only pressed 

By a fair and snowy hand. 

Yet thou hast the scent of the blushing rose, 

The emblem of woman's love, 
More precious than the signal chose 

By the lone returning dove ! 
How I should like to question thee 

Of her warm and fragrant sighs. 
Of her silken tresses loose and free. 

Of the glance of her sunny eyes ; 

Of her foot as fair as the lotus' flower 

From its silken veil withdrawn, 
Kissing the enamour'd chamber floor 

Like a ray of the early dawn ; 
Of the sculptured pose of her queenly form 

When the senseless couch she pressed ; 

Of her half-closed lips with incense warm, 

Of the heave of her sinless breast. 
21 



242 TO A POCKET HANDKERCHIEF. 

For thou perchance hast lain all night 

In the heaven of her room, 
And therefore art thou snowy white 

And rife with rose perfume ; 
At least thou art a sacred thing, 

All senseless tho' thou art, 
And I '11 lay thee as an offering 

On my faint and stricken heart. 



TO 



It seems to me that I have heard 

Thy gentle voice in other years, 
And drank the music of each word 

As tones from the celestial spheres; 
It seems to me that I have seen 

Thy queenly form, thy brow of snow, 
In flowery lands, midst arbors green, 

By dewy starlight, long ago. 

That we have met in fragrant groves 

And wander'd by the moon-lit sea. 
Where soft the perfumed zephyr roves, 

Far o'er the sunny Carribee; 
That I have watch'd thy timid feet 

On many a flower-enamel 'd slope, 
Like notes in music moving sweet, 

And graceful as the antelope. 



244 TO 

It seems to me that I have gazed 

Into those blessed eyes of thine 
Until the light that in them blazed 

Has brought the tears of joy to mine; 
That I have held thy fairy hand^ 

And felt thy breath upon my cheek, 
And from thy lips the kisses bland 

Till mine had lost the power to speak. 

Ah ! I did never hope to meet 

The image that so radiant seem'd, 
But thou art even far more sweet 

Than she of whom I only dream'd; 
And now the blessed night shall bring 

No future dreams of joy to me, 
My heart to dark despair must cling, 

My bright ideal 's found in thee. 

0, would that I had ne'er awoke 

Till in that better land above 
Thy beauty o'er my spirit broke, 

Where it is not a sin to love ; 
For now, alas, till life's last hour 

My captive heart must own the chain. 
And sadden o'er the fatal power 

From which it strives to break in vain ! 



TO ISA. 



Dear Isa, I have often dream'd 
Of beings young and fair like thee, 

But in my sleep they ever seem'd 
Too fair for waking eyes to see. 

Thus when I press'd your gentle hand, 
My spirit felt the sky had given 

One of its pure celestial band 
I only hoped to meet in heaven. 

'Tis well for me this aching heart 
Has known so many years of pain ; 

Since we were doom'd so soon to part, 
Perchance to never meet again. 



246 TO ISA. 

For of your voice tlie joyous thrill — 
The childish ringlets softly curi'd 

O'er thy young brow — they haunt me still. 
Like glimpses of the spirit world. 

The glance that fell from thy dark eyes 
In my lone bosom lingers on, 

Like tints that deck the mournful skies^ 
When daylight's blessed source is gone. 

Farewell, dear one ! Where'er I stray, 
Whate'er my varied fortunes are, 

Through life, and with its parting ray. 
Thy name shall mingle with my prayer. 



LINES: 



WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF THE "ILLUMINATED BALLADS 

OF SHAKSPEARE," AND PRESENTED BY THE AUTHOR 

TO MRS. 



Lady, I know how thou dost prize 
Each bright and lovely thing 

That trembles in the dewy skies, 
Or blushes o'er the spring. 

I know there 's not a wavelet's crest, 

A perfume on the air, 
But wakes within thy gentle breast 

The eloquence of prayer. 

That in each floral solitude 

Thy fairy foot hath trod, 
In every blossom thou hast view'd 

A messenger from God. 



248 LINES TO MRS. 



To thee the voice of early birds, 
The breath of twilight dim, 

Are but so many mystic words 
Of thankfulness to Him. 

I know that music's melting tone, 

The poet's sounding lays. 
Are only valued when they own 

The language of His praise ; 

That earthly empire and renown. 
In vain to thee were given, 

For thou 'st a far more radiant crown 
Laid up for thee in heaven. 

And yet I know thou 'It not refuse 
These little shining flowers, 

Cull'd by the lofty tragic muse 
In fancy's fadeless bowers. 

They 're oifered by affection's soul 
At friendship's holy shrine — 

They 're pure and bright and beautiful, 
And therefore should be thine. 



FANNIE LEMOINE. 



Fannie Lemoine, tho' the struggle is o'er 

That I felt when I knew I should see thee no more. 

Yet thine image has made in my bosom a shrine 

Where thou dwellest for ever, dear Fannie Lemoine. 

Thy cheek is as fair as the hue of the rose, 

Or the last cloud that pillows the evening's repose; 

Thine eye is like that of the airy gazelle,. 

And thy step like his step in the flowery dell. 

More lovely than hyacinths clusters thy hair 
O'er a brow like magnolia buds, sunny and fair; 
Thy hand is a moon-beam — I cannot control 
The arrows of love it has shot through my soul ; 
Like the spell of the summer bow after the storm, 
Is the charm of thy mind — is the grace of thy form ; 
Like notes in soft music, where wavelets are clear, 
Are the ravishing tones of thy voice to my ear. 



250 FANNIE LEMOINE. 

Like a mine of rich pearls is thy dehcate mouth, 
And thy breath as the spice-laden gales of the south. 
At thy presence my bosom has trembled with fears : 
Has been wrapt into joy — has been melted to tears: 
Tho' I knew in despair that thou couldst not be mine, 
Yet I worship'd thine image as something divine, 
For I felt thy endearing perfections were given 
As a type and a pledge of the beauty in heaven. 

Give the poet his wreath, give the lawyer his fee, 
Give the sailor his ship on the dark-rolling sea, 
Give the sage all the planets that glitter on high. 
But give me to dream of my love till I die. 
Give the warrior his steed, give the monarch his 

throne, 
With a sceptre acknowledged in every zone. 
Give the statesman his glory, give the miser his coin, 
But leave me the memory of Fannie Lemoine. 



THE DEW DEO P. 



Far distant from its native wood, 

When summer months had flown, - 
A stricken flower of autumn stood 

Uncultured and unknown; 
Each blossom that it knew in spring, 

Each kindred of the lawn, 
With all their hues, were perishing. 

Or were for ever gone. 

The blaze that ripes the harvest sheaves 

Had wither'd all around, 
And e'en the sparse and faded leaves 

Were scatter 'd on the ground; 
Yet o'er the ruin calmly bow'd 

That blighted lonely stem. 
And waited for the winter shroud 

To lay it low with them. 



252 THE DEW DROP. 

A spirit of the night drew near 

Where that wild flowret grew, 
And gave it, hke a saintly tear, 

One radiant drop of dew; 
It linger'd there till early morn 

Shone through that silent bower, 
And then with hues in Eden born, 

Flash'd o'er the dying flower. 

But scarce it felt the new delight 

Beneath the rising day, 
Ere the fairy gift of melting night 

Vanish'd in air away; 
Touch'd by the shade that moment cast 

Upon its inmost core, 
It yielded to the chilling blast, 

And rose from earth no more. 

Thus, lady, thy Promethean smile 

O'er my drooping spirit stole; 
Thus did thy radiant glance beguile 

The darkness of my soul, 
Till I forgot my cheek had known 

The trace of hopeless tears 
That sorrow o'er my brow had strewn, 

What should have come with years. 



THE DEW DROP. 253 

it Avas rapture e'en to meet 

That Psyche form of thine, 
And bow me at thy woman's feet 

As at some holy shrine, 
To hear thy gentle voice, to drink 

The glory from thine eyes, 
As molten sunbeams from the brink 

Of fragrant summer skies. 

But swiftly as the morning's ray 

Absorbs the diamond dew. 
Or childhood's gilded dreams decay, 

Those halcyon moments flew, 
And left all cold and withering 

The passion — flowers they gave : 
Ah ! will they freshen in the Spring 

That blooms beyond the grave. 



TO ALTHEA: 



ON BEING PRESENTED BY HER WITH A FLOWER COMMONLY 
CALLED THE "FORGET ME NOT." 

" Forget me not !" as soon the sun 

At morning shall forget to rise, 
The streams forget their course to run, 

The njoon forget the starry skies ; 
As soon the flowers forget to blow, 

The magnet shall forget the pole, 
The hills forget the summer's glow, 

The ocean waves forget to roll. 

*^ Forget me not !" it were well, 

Thou gentle one, perchance for me, 
If I could break the pleasing spell 

That binds my every thought to thee ; 
'Twere well if from my aching heart 

The memory of thy smiles would flee, 
As sun-tints from the sky depart, 

As ripples from the halcyon sea. 



TO ALTHEA. 255 

For while my breast with anxious art, 

Has treasured every look of thine, 
How can I hope thy gentle heart 

Will e'er retain one thought of mine ; 
Too long, alas ! the seat of gloom. 

Of silent pain and wasting care ! 
I scarce could wish thy girlish bloom 

Its dark and lonely thoughts to share. 

And yet this little purple flower 

Is far more welcome to my eyes, 
More priceless than the richest dower 

That fortune's favored minions prize ; 
And if but one earnest prayer 

Were granted to my humble lot, 
I 'd send thee one as fresh and fair, 

To say to thee "forget me not !" 

I 'd have from art its beauteous mold 
With every costly gem arrayed ; 

The stem should be of virgin gold, 
The leaves of rarest emerald made. 

That it might hail thy sunny gaze 

Through life, in hours of gloom or glee, 

And tell thee with its fadeless blaze 
<:« Forget me not," eternally. 



WEITTEN" IJ^ AN ALBUM. 



LADT, should a thought of mine, 

Upon this gentle page appear, 
'Twould only mar the spell divine 

That should for ever linger here. 
For if in love I touch the lyre, 

Its numbers all discordant flow — 
What other themes may still inspire. 

That chord was broken long ago. 

And friendship is too cold a name 

To mark the poet's brief address 
To one who in the ranks of fame 

He must remember but to bless. 
No, as the thoughtful wanderer's hand. 

To mark some spot where he has been, 
And knows that happier forms will stand, 

And gaze upon that lovely scene, 



WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 257 

So here my sadden'd soul will trace, 

And then in sorrow turn away, 
And leave this lovely resting-place 

To fairer forms and hearts more gay. 

22 



TO LITTLE JULIA L 



My dearest Julia, tho' we part, 

And may not meet again, 
The blessings of my inmost heart 

Around thee shall remain, 
And ever in my care-worn breast, 

Thy bright and sunny form 
In its childish loveliness shall rest, 

Like the rainbow on the storm. 

I ne'er shall mark the opening flowers, 

Or list the birdling's song ; 
But memories of those vanished hours 

Around my heart shall throng ; 
And tears will gather on my cheek, 

And fall as they do now. 
When my restless glances vainly seek 

Thy careless infant brow. 



TO LITTLE JULIA L 259 

When no more thy little pattering feet 

To my loneliness draw near, 
And vainly for thy accents sweet 

I strain my listening ear ; 
When days and tardy weeks shall fly, 

And months shall hurry on, 
And still my aching breast shall sigh : 

My darling one is gone. 

I 've many a little shining leaf, 

And flowret fair to see ; 
Ah, will it soothe my anxious grief 

To know they were from thee ? 
How often shall I turn to them 

In the lapse of coming years, 
Yiew each one as a priceless gem. 

And dew them with my tears. 

Thou camest with the early flowers, 

As sweet and fair as they, 
And now the cruel autumn hours 

Are calling thee away. 
I know the gentle breath of spring 

Will soon restore their charms; 
But oh ! what spell again shall bring. 

Thy beauty to my arms. 



260 TO LITTLE JULIA L- 



Farewell thou bud of priceless worth ! 

Ere thy glory shall unfold, 
This form within the silent earth 

May moulder low and cold ; 
The sods may swell above my breast, 

The gloomy cypress wave, 
And many a careless step be press'd 

Upon my nameless grave I 

At least I shall escape the pain 

Of love's enduring thrall 
Thy woman's loveliness shall chain 

Upon the hearts of all ; 
For, that thy little angel face, 

Thy angel form, shall be 
In future years the mould of grace, 

Is my hope — my prophecy. 



SONG, 



God ! how lone, how dark a thing: 

The soul revenge hath fled ; 
Where hope lies wasted, withering, 

'er passions cold and dead ! 
What I have been I am not now — 

There 's iron in my heart — 
A pang within this throbbing brow 

That will not all depart. 

There 's leaves upon the forest trees, ' 

And birds within their bowers ; 
There 's fragrance in the swelling breeze, 

And dew upon the flowers. 
There 's beauty in the morning light 

And evening's soft decline; 
But oh ! there is a starless night 

O'er this cold heart of mine. 



262 SONG. 

There 's rapture in the boundless sky, 

And ocean's azure swell, 
When gentle Iris paints on high 

Her gold and crimson spell. 
In freedom from the mountain's hight 

The gushing waters leap, 
Like dreams, into the rayless night 

That 'neath their thunders sleep. 

Young Spring, with her unbound tresses, 

And bright and flowing robe, 
In bridal pomp caresses 

The green and smiling globe. 
She's throned upon the mountains, 

But she may not control 
The spirit's icy fountains — 

The Winter of the soul. 

Nor yield one hour of childish glee, 

Such as the heart hath known. 
Ere it was darkly doom'd to be 

So withered and so lone : 
For distance, time, and death have riven 

The hearth, the household chain ; 
And it is not in earth and heaven 

To bind its links again. 



FAEEWELL 



to- 



Farewell ! farewell ! The waves beneath me foam, 
The steam is up, the signal flag unfurl'd ; 

'Tis something left, to have the power to roam 
When the soul's ark is wreck'd upon the world. 

Soon shall I flit along the pictured shore. 
And mark each scene of beauty as we glide, 

But not with feelings I have known of yore, 
"When thou and love were standing by my side. 

The Sire of Waters I shall soon behold, 

'Twill soothe to see his eddies boil and flow: 

But tho' his waves o'er half the world are roll'd. 
He reaches not so far as I must go ! 



264 FAREWELL. 

Light bounds our bark, impatient to be gone, 
And curls her vapor breath into the sky ; 

A moment more and she will hurry on, 

As clouds that speed with tempest wings on high. 

Brief days shall pass o'er ere her homeward prow 
Again these waves unweariedly shall spurn j 

But ye, fair shores, I hail so fondly now. 

When shall my footsteps to your shades return. 

Ask the torn branch upon this current driven — 
Ask the frail leaf upon the winter wind — 

Ask the lone bird that wings a frowning heaven — 
In these, alas ! ye shall an answer find. 

Farewell ! farewell ! 'tis time I should depart 

From scenes where we perchance should meet 
again ; 

And thou shouldst prove the weakness of a heart, 
To which thou canst not be what thou hast been ! 

To meet thy glance as if we ne'er had met — 
To coldly gaze upon thy worship'd brow — 

This, this were pain beyond the wild regret 
That rankles in this aching bosom now. 



FAREWELL. 265 

Farewell ! farewell ! the waves beneath me foam, 
The steam is up, the signal flag unfurl'd ; 

'Tis something left to have the power to roam, 
When the soul's ark is wreck'd upon the world. 

23 



MORNING AT THE FALLS, 



'Tis morning, and the vapors white 
Towering on high, reflect the light 
Back in a flood of glittering gems, 

As if the genii of the air 
Their baldricks and their diadems 

In hecatombs were offering there ; 
'Tis morning, and the foliage green, 
O'er that gulf is deck'd with silver sheen; 
A pearly shower as softly lies, 

As bright, as sweetly there reposes, 
As ever fell from summer skies 

Upon an orient vale of roses. 

The cedar twining o'er the rock 
As if 'twere conscious of the shock; 
The earthquake of that ocean tide. 
That, pouring, rushing evermore, 



MORNING AT THE FALLS. 267 

Like rolling avalanches glide 

And foam along the shore, 
Bears on the emerald crown it wears, 

Gems brighter than have ever lain 
Upon the young and tender leaves 

Where softly fell the gentle rain ; 
When Flora's lovely censers fling 
Their incense o'er the shrine of spring. 

It is indeed a fearful thing, 

A moment we shall ne'er forget. 
To stand where e'en the eagle's wing 

Has never dared to venture yet ; 
To mark the voliimed vapor white 

Roll up as from a mighty altar. 
And feel upon that dizzy hight 

The eternal rock beneath us falter. 
While thousand rainbows fade and flash 

O'er the crush'd waters as they flow, 
And from our very footsteps crash 

In mist and thunder far below, 
To know that till the Almighty hand 

Shall "roll together as a scroll" 
The utmost verge of sea and land, 

That mighty stream shall foam and fall ; 



26 8 MORNING AT THE FALLS. 

That when our puny frames forgot 
In death shall sleep full many a year, 

Then other eyes shall hail this spot 
And gaze as we are gazing here. 



I KEMEMBER THEE YET. 



I REMEMBER thee jet — I remember the hour 
When my bosom first knew th j omnipotent power ; 
When all light and all loveliness first I beheld. 
And worship'd thy form as a creature of eld. 
I remember thee yet — I remember each grace, 
The music, the heaven of thy form, and thy face : 
Thy forehead of snow, and thy tresses of jet, 
And thy glance of endearment, I cannot forget. 
I remember thee yet, in the madness of grief. 
For which life has no charm, and the grave no relief, 
The place where we parted, the scenes where we met, 
How often, how lonely, I visit them yet. 
At the tomb or the altar, the bower or the hearth. 
In silence or revel, in mourning or mirth ; 
In moments of glee, or in hours of regret, 
There's a pang in my breast — I remember thee yet. 



270 I REMEMBER THEE YET. 

I remember thee yet — I remember with tears, 
Thro' the shadow of death and the winter of years ; 
Though the last star of hope at our parting had set, 
Thro' the night of despair — I remember thee yet. 
And oft o'er my heart will that memory arise, 
Like a desolate star o'er the storm-shrouded skies ; 
Like a flower in the desert — a bird o'er the sea, 
Mid the waste of my soul, is the memory of thee. 



A PICTURE. 



It was no dream, I did not sleep, 

Altho' it was the hour of rest — 
Slumber is not for eyes that weep, 

Nor visions for a troubled breast — - 
And I had vainly sought repose, 

Which, like the smile that friendship w^*^ars, 
Will gild the cup when pleasure flows, 

But turns to poison in our cares. 

The stars were glittering pure and bright, 

The sky cerulean and serene, 
And forth the lovely queen of night. 

Roll 'd in her robes of silver sheen ; 
In sooth it was a lovely hour, 

So calm, so lonely, and so sweet. 
Each dewy herb and moon-lit llower 

Invited forth my wayward feet. 



272 A PICTUEE. 

And I have never gazed unmoved 

Upon the humblest flower that blows — 
The sea, the earth, the sky I've loved, 

Alone have power to soothe my woes — 
So out I stray'd to seek that spell 

Philosophy could not impart ; 
It seem'd in every thing to dwell, 

Save in my sear and blighted heart. 

I know not why my steps were turn'd 

To the lone dwellings of the dead, 
Unless it was I inly burn'd 

With them to rest my aching head ; 
And ere my mind could be aware, 

I stood in silence and alone. 
Amidst those quiet couches, where 

Slumber 's a dreamless care unknown. 

I wander'd where some ancient trees 

In moonlight steep'd full many a bough, 
And felt the evening's dewy breeze 

Pass grateful o'er my fever 'd brow— 
'Tis true, my pulse beat high and fast, 

Yet o'er my heart no hectic gleam 
Of wild delusive fancy past, 

I knew and know it was no dream. 



A PICTURE. 273 

A form appeared — I held my breath — 

It past me with a fairj step, 
To where within the arms of death 

Love's mortal manes in silence slept ! 
She knelt, and o'er her neck of snow 

Her unbound hair in ringlets curl'd, 
And beam'd upon her angel brow 

A light that was not of this world. 

And words she breathed so wildly there, 

I felt my inmost heart was riven, 
To hear such eloquence of prayer 

From lips that seem'd themselves from heaven! 
0, woman's love, like those pure flowers 

That linger 'midst autumnal gloom — 
Like them 'twill cheer life's darkest hours, 

And only wither o'er the tomb. 



TO IMOGIJSTE. 



Thy dreamy glance — thy lip of flame — 
The raven ringlets softly curl'd 

O'er thy fair brow, are still the same, 
And surely still might charm the world. 

Thy form of light — thy silken tread — 
The music to thy accents given — 

Those spells of passion still might shed, 
That link our purest hopes with heaven. 

Those peerless charms — thy power to win— 
Have bound, still bind this aching heart ; 

But knowing what thou mightst have been, 
I think, God, of what thou art ! 



TO IMOGINE. 275 

'Twere anguish to have seen the dye 

Of roses on thy lips decay j 
And from thy dark and Houri eye 

The soul of passion fade away. 

'Twere madness to have watch'd thy bed, 
And seen thy form's immortal mould 

Become a marble thing of dread, 
And in thy shroud lie still and cold ! 

Yet even this I could have seen. 

And calm beside the ruin knelt — 
Whate'er my anguish might have been. 

It could not be what I have felt ! 

As from the dimm'd and mourning sky 
. The lovely Pleiad pass'd in light away ; 
No more to glitter in the zenith high. 
Or gem the evening's mantle gray : 

So would thy all unrival'd form, 

When love had wept thy early doojn, 

Pass from this dark world's latest storm 
All spotless to thy peaceful tomb. 



27'6 TO IMOGINE. 

And I thro' life's remotes.t year 
Had treasured, as a thing divine, 

The memory of thy image dear. 
Within my bosom's holiest shrine. 

And oft, when night o'er land and wave 
Had buried sight and sound in sleep. 

My pilgrim steps had sought thy grave. 
Alone, if not in prayer, to weep. 

m 

But now nay let me not upbraid; 

For thou art nothing more to me 
Than if thy early tomb were made 

Far down in the unmeasured sea. 



FAEEWELL TO THE LYRE 



One strain, my harp, and then farewell 

For ever to thy soundmg cords ! 
A sigh perchance this heart may swell, 

Pain'd by our final parting words ; 
This brow may own a shade of care, 

This changing cheek my grief betray, 
When on the passing breeze afar 

I hear thy latest tones decay ; 

For oh, I deem'd not when my touch 

Of late upon thy strings was lain. 
Thy tones beneath my wilder'd clutch 

So soon should turn to throbs of pain 
That thou shouldst be as now thou art, 

Companion of my early years, 
Discordant as my breaking heart. 

And wet with my descending tears. 



278 FAREWELL TO THE LYRE. 

Alas for pleasure's rosy hours ! 

Alas that time and grief and care, 
So soon should teach these hearts of ours 

How fleeting and how false they are ! 
The soft and fleecy clouds of night 

That float around the silver moon, 
The rainbow's arch of painted light, 

Survive their most enduring boon. 

As insubstantial as the hue 

Of shadows o'er a flowing stream, 
The evanescent drops of dew. 

The fleeting music of a dream : 
And what the spell that can recall 

One precious hour of joy that 's fled ? 
As soon beneath the sable pall 

Ye may reanimate the dead. 

But let that pass, it boots not now, 

'Tis for the feeble to complain, 
And manhood should in silence bow 

To whatsoe'er the fates ordain. 
Should bear him like the stately oak 

That does in storms but stronger grow, 
And e'en survive the lightning's stroke 

That lays his lofty honors low. 



FAREWELL TO THE LYUE. 279 

What tho' the false delusive glare, 

The phantom hopes of youth decline, 
The strength that 's yielded by despair, 

The might of sorrow still is mine ; 
And if thy wild untutor'd strain 

Has made one bosom happier swell, 
Thy cords were not invoked in vain — 

My gentle harp, farewell, farewell ! 



574 



%<^^ 










.■;.>^T?9: 




4^"^. 



, .,„ _ , . ^-.' W t? / ,7 

•i >^ 'JV ■ 



:^ .^-^^ 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 1 6066 
(724) 779-2111 




^-"^ 




•4. °^ 










•A 










^/>^f^\ '^ 



^0 



X 















7 









-V 






-^ v'^ 



,^' 






o N c 






^^ * 4 ft ^ Ti 












'i4 






^\.,-,r^-,_ ' , '-^ 



0^ :fe: 



